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•'  We  seem  fated  to  meet,"  I  said.    "  It  does  look  like  it,"  he  answered. 

Page  34.  A  JilVs  Journal. 


A  JILT'S  JOURNAL 


A    NOVEL 


BY   "RITA" 


•*  Give  me  a  nook  and  a  book, 
And  let  the  proud  world  spin  round.' 


A.  L.  BURT  COMPANY,  PUBLISHERS, 
52-58  DUANE  STREET,  NEW  YORK  ** 


Copyright,  1903.     BY  A.  L.  BUET  COMPANY. 


A  JILT'S  JOURNAL. 
BY  "RiTA." 


SRLF 

URL  £142610 


A  JILT'S  JOURNAL 


PART   I. 

The  Desire  of  Knowkdge. 


CHAPTER  I. 

IT  was  something  one  of  the  girls  said  yesterday, 
when  we  were  in  the  Swedish  gymnasium,  that 
made  me  do  it. 

"Some  people  scribble  with  their  pens,  but  you, 
Paula,  scribble  with  your  mind,"  was  her  remark. 

"What  do  you  mean  ?"  I  made  answer. 

"You  are  always  presenting  things  to  yourself  in 
the  light  of  an  event.  You  don't  accept  a  plain  fact ; 
you  must  embroider  it.  I  believe  everything  that 
happens  is  a  story  to  you.  You  act  in  it,  and  live  in 
it,  and  imagine  all  sorts  of  extra  things  about  it — 
things  that  don't  really  happen,  except  in  your  own 
mind.  'He  said/  and  'she  said,'  and  'he  answered/ 
is  always  going  on  within  you.  You're  the  sort  of 
girl  who  ought  to  write  a  book,  or  go  on  the  stage. 
You're  bound  to  do  something." 

"My  mother  wrote  books,"  I  said  thoughtfully. 

"Perhaps  that  accounts  for  it.  Lesley  and  I  were 
talking  about  you  last  night,  and  we  came  to  the 


*  A  JILT'S  JOURNAL. 

conclusion  that  you're  too  restless  to  be  just  the 
ordinary  girl.  You're  a — a — " 

"Personality?"  I  suggested. 

"I  suppose  that's  the  word.  I  mean  something 
that  can't  be  suppressed:  that  wants  to  come  out 
and  speak,  and  live.  You  would  like  to  keep  a 
record  of  your  emotions,  for  the  sheer  delight  of 
seeing  them  written  down." 

Claire  le  Creux  was  eighteen,  and  was  leaving 
school.  I  was  a  year  younger,  but  my  education 
was  finished  also.  At  least  I  had  received  an 
intimation  from  my  guardian,  who  was  also  my 
uncle,  that  I  was  to  return  to  him  at  the  expiration 
of  this  Christmas  term. 

We  elder  girls  were  arranging  the  gymnasium  for 
the  breaking-up  party,  which  great  event  was  to 
take  place  that  evening.  The  long  room  was 
decorated  with  ivy  and  holly ;  the  poles  and  swings 
and  bars  were  put  away,  or  fastened  back.  Rows 
of  chairs  had  been  placed  for  expected  visitors,  and 
on  the  impromptu  stage  at  the  end  of  the  room  a 
last  rehearsal  of  a  fairy  scene  was  going  on.  The 
younger  children  were  solemnly  pirouetting  in 
obedience  to  directions  from  the  dancing  mistress. 
The  French  governess  was  assisting  us  in  the  deco- 
rations. A  flock  of  girls  were  perpetually  flitting 
through  the  room,  hindering  or  helping,  according 
to  their  mood. 

I,  Paula  Trent,  Claire  le  Creux,  and  my  special 
friend,  Lesley  Heath,  were  sufficiently  apart  from 
the  crowd  for  conversation.  The  conversation  I 
have  described,  the  chance  words  that  suddenly 
seemed  to  throw  a  side-light  upon  the  odd  and 
changeful  and  supremely  discontented  self  which  I 
had  dignified  as  a  "personality." 


A   JILT'S   JOURNAL.  5 

As  a  rule  schoolgirls  are  not  supposed  to  think 
of  themselves  individually  so  much  as  of  the  life 
and  duties  and  routine  by  which  their  lives  are 
bounded.  They  are  so  much  part  of  a  system  that 
they  must  forget,  or  ignore,  their  own  small  place  in 
the  vast  community.  Only  a  great  gift,  a  great  lone- 
liness, or  a  great  sorrow  lifts  them  into  a  separate 
sphere  of  existence.  A  place  where  routine  is  not; 
where  thought  claims  creative  force,  and  where"! — 
the  Individual" — becomes  a  creature  of  importance. 

To  myself  I  had  long  been  "I — the  Individual." 
Claire's  words  only  illuminated  what  I  had  kept  in 
the  background  of  my  own  thoughts. 

She  was  the  star  of  our  scholastic  firmament,  the 
brightest,  cleverest,  most  accomplished  of  all  the 
accomplished  pupils  turned  out  of  this  mill  of  learn- 
ing. She  had  taken  more  prizes,  passed  more  ex- 
aminations, won  more  honors  than  any  of  the  girls. 
And  she  and  I  and  Lesley  Heath  were  leaving  at 
the  same  time,  after  many  terms  of  school  friend- 
ship. Lesley  was  a  general  favorite — I  was  not.  I 
do  not  intend  to  convey  that  I  was  unpopular.  Far 
from  it.  But  my  tastes  were  exclusive,  and  my 
tongue  had  a  trick  of  sharpness.  It  offended  oftener 
than  it  flattered,  and  plain-speaking,  even  if  veiled 
by  irony,  is  not  beloved  of  schoolgirls.  Claire  was 
the  supreme  favorite.  I  had  been  spasmodically 
jealous  of  her  friendship  for  Lesley,  but,  having 
proved  it  less  devated  than  my  own,  was  content  to 
rank  myself  first  in  that  coveted  affection. 

We  stood  as  "The  Three,"  in  schoolgirl  parlance. 
A  trio  of  united  excellence  in  point  of  conduct,  gifts, 
and  credit  to  the  establishment. 

Claire  came  first,  Lesley  second  and  I — third.  I 
could  have  taken  place  in  the  first  rank  had  I  so 


chosen,  but  I  had  a  knack  of  starting  at  a  gallop  and 
then  coming  in  at  a  walk.  I  grew  tired  of  things 
so  quickly,  even  of  endeavor.  I  saw  myself  attain- 
ing so  much  in  fancy  that  I  allowed  myself  to  fail  in 
fact.  What  I  felt  I  could  do  ceased  to  be  worthy 
the  effort  of  accomplishment. 

That  sentence  of  Claire's — "You  scribble  with 
your  mind" — sums  up  very  accurately  my  pecu- 
liarity. I  was  always  living  scenes  and  situations  in 
a  mental  atmosphere  that  held  me  aloof  and  ab- 
sorbed. My  mind  was  filled  with  imaginary  friends 
I  might  have  loved,  imaginary  deeds  I  might  have 
done,  imaginary  speeches  I  might  have  made.  The 
outer  world,  the  real  life  I  lived,  could  not  content 
me.  I  wanted  a  wider  stage  on  which  to  play,  an 
impossible  canvas  on  which  to  paint;  an  infinitude 
of  manuscript  would  have  represented  the  book  I 
wished  to  write. 

The  strangest  thoughts  came  to  me  and  the  most 
impossible  dreams.  I  was  badly  equipped  for  life, 
but  I  panted  to  set  foot  on  its  pathway  of  freedom. 
Anything  seemed  freedom  that  was  unbounded  by 
school  walls  and  school  discipline.  I  did  not  speak 
of  my  feelings,  even  to  Lesley.  It  flattered  me 
therefore  to  feel  I  had  interested  her  sufficiently  for 
discussion. 

And  such  a  discussion!  It  gave  me  a  new  im- 
portance in  my  own  eyes.  It  set  my  queer  mind 
scribbling  afresh. 

Even  throughout  that  evening,  the  recitations, 
the  piano  playing,  the  fairy  tableaux,  the  general 
"showing-off"  to  delighted  parents,  critical  elder 
sisters,  scoffing  brothers  and  cousins,  I  was  living  a 
description  of  it  all.  Putting  it  into  shape,  laugh- 
ing at  the  puppets,  and  criticising  the  show. 


A   JILT'S   JOURNAL.  T 

My  own  performance  was  sufficiently  meritorious 
to  win  applause.  But  I  had  no  parents  to  delight, 
no  relatives  to  admire  me;  no  friends  to  fill  the 
benches,  and  give  pleased  attention  to  my  part  in 
the  programme. 

We  ended  up  with  a  dance.  I  had  partners  of 
all  ages  and  sizes  and  incompetence.  My  toes  suf- 
fered severely.  A  stolid,  awkward,  but  persevering 
youth  persisted  in  requesting  the  favor  of  my  hand. 
I  grew  exasperated.  I  loved  dancing,  but  my  feet 
ached,  and  he  had  trampled  my  shoes  into  shape- 
lessness.  At  his  last  "May  I  have  the  pleasure?" 
my  tongue  forgot  conventionality,  and  I  answered, 
"You  may  have  the  pleasure,  but  I  have  had  the 
pain." 

He  grew  red,  stared  stupidly  at  me,  and  then 
walked  off. 

Lesley  laughed  softly.     She  had  overheard. 

"If  you  are  as  truthful  with  future  partners  in  the 
ballroom  as  with  that  poor  youth,  I  pity  them,"  she 
said. 

But  I  sat  out  the  dance,  and  nursed  my  injured 
foot,  and  felt  thankful  for  a  space  of  untrampled 
peace. 

The  evening  was  over  at  last.  The  day  pupils 
had  all  departed,  cloaked  and  hatted  and  ecstatic 
at  the  prospect  of  holidays.  The  boarders  were  to 
follow  their  example  next  morning.  A  relaxation 
on  the  part  of  tired  governesses  brought  about  the 
assembling  of  Lesley,  Claire  and"myself  in  the  bed- 
room I  shared  with  the  former. 

It  was  a  momentous  occasion,  and  we  felt  its 
gravity.  One  phase  of  life  had  closed  for  us.  We 
jould  never  again  be  three  schoolgirls  interested 
only  in  the  rivalries  and  duties  of  fully  occupied 


8  A   JILT'S   JOURNAL. 

days.  We  were  to  stretch  our  clipped  wings  at  last 
and  soar  to  the  world  beyond  our  safely  sheltered 
nest.  We  were  to  be  free — if  such  a  thing  be  pos- 
sible except  in  the  form  of  comparison  with  varying 
modes  of  feminine  bondage.  Free !  It  had  a  pleas- 
ant sound  as  we  discussed  it,  brushing  out  long, 
silky  locks  to  the  rhythm  of  pleasant  speculations. 

It  was  then — that,  at  the  instigation  of  the  others 
— I  decided  to  keep  a  journal — a  journal  which  was 
to  be  a  faithful  record  of  my  after  life,  which,  by 
some  method  of  reasoning,  they  both  declared  was 
certain  to  be  eventful. 

''Why — more  than  yours?"  I  asked  them. 

And  Claire  referred  to  that  speech  in  the  gym- 
nasium. "You  are  a  born  scribbler,"  she  added, 
"and  you  will  be  able  to  make  even  commonplace 
things  picturesque." 

"My  life  at  Scarffe  will  be  uneventful  enough,"  I 
observed.  "My  guardian  is  old  and  learned,  a  cele- 
brated archaeologist.  He  has  written  some  wonder- 
ful book  on  the  ruined  castles  of  England,  and 
knows  more  about  Norman  and  Tudor  architecture 
than  any  other  professor.  I  believe  he  only  settled 
at  Scarffe  because  there  is  an  old  ruin  there  that 
dates  from  the  Saxon  era.  He  has  been  two  years 
investigating  it,  and  has  not  finished  his  researches 
yet." 

"And  you  will  live  alone  with  him?" 

"Yes.  And  the  village  is  as  quiet  as  the  deserted 
one  of  Goldsmith's.  It  only  wakes  up  once  a  year 
for  the  Fair  Day.  Fancy,  they  even  ring  the  curfew 
there r 

"That  must  be  interesting,"  said  Claire.  "Have 
vou  all  to  put  out  your  lights  and  go  to  bed  at  sun- 
set?" 


!A!  JILT'S   JOURNAL.  9 

"I  believe  some  of  the  country  folk  do." 

"What  are  the  people  round  about  you  like?  The 
county,  I  mean." 

"I  only  spent  one  holiday  there.  I  know  nothing 
of  them/' 

''What? —  Not  the  squire  or  rector,  or  doctor! 
Don't  tell  me  it's  quite  so  God- forsaken." 

"Oh,  no !  There  is  a  title  and  park  in  the  neigh- 
borhood, and  some  good  families,  and  a  rector  and 
curate  to  look  after  their  souls,  and  a  doctor  to  take 
care  of  their  bodies;  but  my  uncle  never  goes  to 
church,  and  is  never  ill,  so  they  leave  him  severely 
alone." 

"It  seems  a  dull  look-out  for  you,  Paula,"  said 
Lesley. 

"I  hope,  of  your  charity,  you  will  come  and  stay 
with  me  sometimes,"  I  answered. 

"I  will,  and  carry  you  off  to  London  in  return. 
You  must  not  be  buried  alive." 

"London!     How  I  should  love  it!"  I  exclaimed. 

"Perhaps  you  would  not.  It  is  not  half  so  en- 
chanting as  its  name  portends." 

"And  you,  Claire — you  go  to  Paris,"  I  said.  "I 
am  the  only  country  mouse,  it  appears." 

"Oh!  Paris  is  to  finish  me,  that's  all.  I  shall 
come  out  then.  My  parents  have  decided  that." 

"Come  out!"  I  exclaimed.  "How  funny  that 
sounds!  A  female  Columbus  making  discoveries 
of  men,  minds,  and  manners.  That  is  an  experi- 
ence I  can't  look  forward  to.  My  uncle  cares  noth- 
ing for  society.  I  don't  suppose  I  shall  ever  go  to 
a  ball — a  real  ball ;  what  Claire  calls  'come  out.' ' 

"After  all,  balls  aren't  absolutely  necessary  to  a 
first  acquaintance  with  life,"  said  Lesley.  "It  can 
be  interesting  in — other  forms." 


10  A  JILT'S   JOURNAL. 

"But  one  has  to  make  the  interest  for  oneself 
instead  of  having  it  made." 

"You  are  well  adapted  for  making  discoveries, 
Paula,"  laughed  Claire. 

"And  interests  too,"  said  Lesley.  "There  may  be 
country  swains  to  conquer,  country  hearts  to  sub- 
jugate before  she  tries  her  powers  on  the  town." 

I  made  a  gesture  of  impatience. 

"Why  is  it,"  I  said,  "that  a  girl's  first  mission  in 
life  is  to  win  the  attention  of  a  man,  her  next  to  get 
married  to  one  ?  It  really  seems  as  if  we  were  edu- 
cated for  no  other  purpose.  There's  something  very 
horrid  about  it.  We  are  shut  away  from  men  so 
that  they  may  not  be  disenchanted  with  us  in  our 
chrysalis  stage.  Then  they  spring  into  life — our 
life — as  possible  lovers  and  husbands.  We  can 
make  no  discoveries  about  them,  and  yet  the  inex- 
perience of  girlhood  is  applied  as  a  test  to  the  weal 
or  woe  of  our  future." 

"What  a  Minerva  you  are!"  laughed  Lesley. 

"And  already  occupying  her  wisdom  in  the  uses 
of  man  as  applied  to  schoolgirl  enlightenment,"  said 
Claire. 

"It  will  have  to  come,"  I  said.  "There's  no  use 
shutting  our  eyes  to  the  fact.  And  there  are  two 
ways  of  treating  the  experience.  To  test,  or  accept 
it." 

"Which  shall  you  do,  Paula?"  asked  Lesley,  her 
laughing  eyes  looking  at  me  from  a  cloud  of  dusky 
hair. 

"Need  you  ask  her  that?"  said  Claire.  "Did  you 
ever  know  Paula  accept  a  thing  without  question  or 
criticism.  She'll  carry  out  the  habit,  depend  on  it." 

"But  you  can't  treat  men  as  you  treat — other 
things,"  said  Lesley.  "How  are  you  to  test  them 


'A   JILT'S   JOURNAL.  11 

until  you  know  them;  and  how  can  you  possibly 
know  them  until  you  have  passed  all  the  conven- 
tional stages,  bounded  by  ballroom  conversation,  or 
casual  acquaintanceship?" 

"I  think  I  shall  find  a  way,"  I  answered. 
They  looked  at  me  eagerly.    "I  really  believe  you 
.will,"  they  said. 
And  that  is  how  I  came  to  write  this  journal. 


CHAPTER  II. 

MY  holidays,  with  but  rare  exception,  had  been 
spent  at  school.  I  was  going  to  a  life  quite  strange 
and  quite  different  from  any  previous  experience. 

I  traveled  alone,  and  being  Christmas  Eve  the 
trains  were  crowded,  slow,  and  the  changes  and 
waits  most  wearisome.  A  novel  I  purchased  at  the 
bookstall  helped  me  to  pass  away  the  time  as  well 
as  affording  me  an  insight  into  certain  phases  of 
life  and  society  hitherto  unknown  and  undreamt  of. 
The  title  was  Friendship,  and  had  allured  me  into 
purchase. 

I  need  hardly  say  that  the  sort  of  friendship  I 
had  expected  to  read  about  was  widely  different 
from  the  author's  ideas  on  the  subject!  However, 
I  was  too  enthralled  and  delighted  to  cavil  at  doubt- 
ful morality — surprised  also  to  find  that  Love,  as  a 
passion,  or  an  experience,  was  not  absolutely  lim- 
ited to  the  unwedded  members  of  society.  The 
beauty  of  the  writing  and  its  style  carried  me  on  as 
by  magic,  and  threw  an  enchanted  haze  over  all  that 
was  harmful.  I  could  find  in  those  pages,  however, 
no  manly  action  in  any  way  appealing  to  my  ideas 
of  the  sex.  Prince  lo  seemed  to  me  a  weak,  vain 
fool,  who  never  knew'  his  own  mind.  The  common- 
place husband  of  Lady  Joan  was  a  hateful  person, 
the  other  male  creatures  mere  sketches.  Naturally 
my  sympathies  flowed  towards  Etoile,  the  beautiful 
and  wonderful  artist,  but  even  she  appeared  to  me 
what  I  can  only  describe  as  a  "book- woman."  Her 

12 


A  JILT'S   JOUKNAL.  13 

sorrows  didn't  appeal,  and  with  all  her  great  genius 
and  wonderful  dreams,  she  certainly  never  spared 
expense  in  the  matter  of  household  luxuries,  or  per- 
sonal adornment.  Such  velvet  robes,  such  lace, 
such  jewels,  such  wealth  of  hothouse  flowers,  and 
fruits,  and  carriages,  and  servants ! 

I  came  to  the  conclusion  that  painting  must  be  a 
most  lucrative  profession  for  a  woman. 

When  it  grew  too  dark  to  read  I  closed  the  book 
and  thought  it  out.  Tried  to  fathom  the  supreme 
art  which,  even  while  it  repels,  exacts  one's  admira- 
tion and  one's  wonder.  To  write  so  that  your 
thoughts  seemed  actual  living  things!  To  take 
some  creature  of  your  fancy  and  clothe  it  with  mere 
words — yet  make  out  of  those  words  a  flesh  and 
blood  covering  for  the  creature.  That,  indeed,  was 
magical  and  great  and  worthy  of  all  praise ! 

I  wished  such  a  power  had  been  mine;  and  that 
wish  brought  back  to  my  memory  again  those  odd 
words  of  Claire  le  Creux,  "You  scribble  with  your 
mind."  That  was  the  truth — a  scathing  one. 
Scribble — nothing  more.  She  did  not  designate  my 
ability  by  any  better  title,  and  Claire  was  a  clever 
girl! 

I  turned  over  the  leaves  of  the  book  with  careless, 
wandering  fingers.  It  was  a  soiled,  second-hand 
copy,  and  I  had  singled  it  out  of  a  pile  marked,  "Re- 
duced Prices."  I  came  suddenly  upon  the  title- 
page  and  saw  written  on  the  blank  space  between 
title  and  publisher's  name,  two  lines  in  pencil.  I 
held  the  page  close  to  the  window,  and  in  the  failing 
light  made  out  with  some  difficulty  the  following 
words : — 

"Yet  there  is  one  that  comes  before  the  rest, 
And  there  is  one  that  stays  when  all  are  gone." 


14 

I  closed  the  book,  and  looking  straight  before  me, 
met  the  eyes  of  a  fellow-passenger. 

A  man — a  young  man,  whom  I  vaguely  remem- 
bered entering  the  train  at  the  last  changing  place. 

"It  is  too  dark  to  read,"  he  said. 

"I  am  not  reading — now/'  I  hastily  added. 

He  smiled.     The  "now"  was  so  recent. 

"How  slow  the  trains  are  to-day,"  he  went  on. 
"We  are  more  than  an  hour  late." 

"Are  we?"  I  said  vaguely.  It  did  not  matter  to 
me.  No  one  would  meet  me  at  the  station.  No 
rapturous  welcome  would  be  my  lot. 

"I — I  suppose  you  are  going  home  for  the  holi- 
days?" he  went  on. 

I  drew  myself  up  resentfully.  Was  schoolgirl 
written  so  very  obviously  on  my  outward  appear- 
ance? 

"For  good,"  I  corrected  the  bold  questioner.  "I 
have  left  school." 

"Oh !"  he  said.  "I  believe  I  am  not  wrong  in  ad- 
dressing you  as  Miss  Trent.  I  remember  you  com- 
ing home  last  year.  Professor  Trent  is  your  guard- 
ian?" 

"Yes.  I  don't  remember  you,  though.  Do  you 
live  here — at  Scarffe,  I  mean?" 

"Yes.  My  father's  place  is  called  Woodcote.  He 
is  a  farmer  on  a  large  scale." 

"Oh!"  I  echoed.  He  looked  something  superior 
to  my  ideas  of  a  farmer's  son.  "And  are  you  a 
farmer  also?" 

"I  am,"  he  said,  with  a  twinkle  in  the  depths  of 
his  blue  eyes  that  the  dull  carriage  lamp  managed  to 
light  up  for  a  second.  "I  used  to  see  you  wander- 
ing about  when  I  was  at  work,  or  driving  to  mar- 
ket. You  looked  very  lonely.  I  often  wished •" 


A   JILTS   JOURNAL.  15 

He  paused  abruptly,  and  I  felt  my  face  grow  sud- 
denly warm. 

"Perhaps  you'll  be  offended,"  he  went  on,  "but  I 
often  wished  you  would  come  to  our  place  and  see 
my  mother  and  the  girls.  They're  very  cheery  folk, 
and  I'm  sure  they'd  do  their  best  to  brighten  the 
days  up  a  bit.  It  must  be  an  awfully  dull  life,  al- 
though the  old  gentleman  is  so  clever.  Having  no 
young  people  about,  I  mean." 

"Why  should  you  think  my  guardian  dull?"  I 
inquired.  "On  the  contrary,  he  is  most — entertain- 
ing." 

"I'm  sure  I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  stammered.  "I 
mean  in  a  different  way,  of  course.  No  jokes,  or 
games,  or  dances,  or  that  sort  of  thing.  To-night, 
for  instance,  we  have  a  dance  and  a  Christmas  tree, 
and  all  sorts  of  fun." 

"Perhaps,"  I  said  somewhat  cruelly,  "our  ideas  of 
fun  are  different.  I  don't  care  for  dancing,  and  I 
think  Christmas  trees  are  only  fit  for  children!" 

It  was  quite  untrue,  and  I  don't  know  why  I  said 
it,  except  that  the  idea  of  this  young  farmer  pitying 
me  set  all  my  pride  on  fire. 

He  looked  disconcerted  at  my  speech,  and  with 
an  apologetic  "I'm  sure  I  beg  your  pardon,"  re- 
lapsed into  silence. 

I  studied  his  face  furtively  under  shadow  of  my 
hat.  It  was  more  interesting  than  good-looking. 
Dark,  sun-tanned,  with  an  expression  of  independ- 
ence and  pride;  firm  lips  (now  set  close  together  in 
momentary  annoyance  at  my  rebuff)  ;  a  fine  head 
set  on  broad  shoulders,  and  eyes  whose  sunny  blue 
this  temporary  annoyance  could  not  cloud. 

"He  does  not  look  like  a  farmer,"  I  told  myself, 
as  the  train  sped  on  through  the  fast-falling  dusk. 


16  A   JILT'S   JOURNAL. 

"I  should  have  taken  him  for  a  gentleman  had  he 
not  told  me." 

He  turned  his  gaze  upon  me  once  more.  "We 
are  almost  there,"  he  said.  "Can  I  be  of  any — as- 
sistance, about  luggage  or — or  anything?  If  you 
have  not  ordered  a  cab  I'm  afraid  there'll  be  a  dif- 
ficulty." 

"Oh !  I  left  all  that  to  my  uncle,"  I  said.  "Usual- 
ly the  porter  brings  up  my  luggage,  and  I  walk  to 
the  house.  It's  not  far." 

"It's  raining,  though,  and  very  dark,"  he  said. 
"My  trap  will  be  waiting  for  me.  Could  I  give  you 
a  lift?" 

"You're  very  kind.  If  no  one  is  at  the  station  I 
shall  be  glad  to  accept  your  offer." 

("Give  you  a  lift"  sounded  homely,  and  left  a 
measurable  distance  between  us,  of  which  I  ap- 
proved. ) 

"No  kindness  at  all,"  he  answered;  "and  half  a 
mile's  walk  in  the  rain  and  darkness  can't  be  much 
of  a  treat  to  a  young  lady  like  yourself." 

The  distance  was  apparently  increasing.  My 
snub  had  been  effectual.  One  doesn't  call  one's 
equal  a  "young  lady" — except  in  irony  of  the  term ! 

The  train  stopped  at  the  insignificant,  dirty  little 
station  at  the  foot  of  the  hill — a  hill  famous  in  his- 
tory, as  was  the  ruin  that  crowned  its  summit.  No 
one  was  there  to  meet  me.  I  had  scarcely  expected 
it. 

To  an  individual  wrapped  in  clouds  of  historical 
research,  and  more  concerned  with  dates  than  living 
personages,  the  arrival  of  a  schoolgirl  was  too  in- 
significant for  attention.  I  stretched  my  numbed 
limbs  and  gathered  together  such  details  as  travel- 
ing bag,  rug,  and  umbrella.  Then  my  new  ac- 


A   JILT'S   JOURNAL.  17 

quaintance  helped  me  out  of  the  carriage,  and  left 
me  on  the  platform  while  he  went  to  look  after  my 
box. 

He  soon  returned,  and  I  gave  the  superannuated 
porter  the  usual  instructions.  Then  we  went  out  to 
the  entrance  where  a  smart  little  trap  and  spanking 
chestnut  were  waiting,  held  by  a  rough-looking  lad 
who  had  driven  from  the  farm. 

The  owner  handed  me  in.  I  was  still  ignorant  of 
his  name.  The  boy  clambered  up  behind,  and  the 
chestnut  started  up  the  hill  at  a  speed  that  atoned 
for  long  waiting  and  the  attentions  of  wind  and 
rain.  How  dreary  and  desolate  the  little  village 
looked !  The  great  castle  loomed  above  it  like  a  pro- 
tecting giant,  a  shapeless  mass  against  the  dull  and 
starless  sky.  The  quairt  eld  inn,  deserted  in  win- 
ter, showed  a  light  in  its  square  stone  porch.  The 
Market  Cross  was  but  a  white  gleam  amidst  the 
queer  old  houses  as  we  dashed  by.  The  horse's 
hoofs  struck  fire  from  the  flint  stones  of  the  street, 
and  the  rattle  of  the  wheels  roused  a  whirlwind  of 
echoes.  The  few  shops  had  made  festive  efforts  to 
signalize  the  season,  but  they  left  a  feeling  of  pity  in 
my  mind.  Fashion  and  frivolity  were  alike  out  of 
place  at  Scarffe. 

It  is  a  bit  of  mediaeval  history  dropped  into  mod- 
ern life.  As  out  of  place  in  it  as  the  bicycles  of  the 
tourists,  and  the  cheap  teas  it  advertises  in  its  sum- 
mer season  of  prosperity.  Fortunately  it  possesses 
only  that  season — a  brief  one  at  best — and  a  thing 
organized  by  coaching  trips,  and  inquisitive  Amer- 
icans, to  whom,  apparently,  all  things  connected 
with  English  history  possess  the  attraction  of  non- 
possession. 

The  summer  season  of  Scarffe  was  as  yet  un- 


18  A   JILT'S    JOURNAL. 

known  to  me,  but  I  had  heard  of  it  from  the  pro- 
fessor. I  never  called  him  "uncle" ;  it  would  have 
seemed  a  liberty. 

My  companion  was  absolutely  silent  during  that 
drive.  I  imagined  the  chestnut  required  all  his 
energies.  We  soon  left  the  village  behind  (though 
called  a  town  and  dignified  as  a  borough,  Scarffe  is 
nothing  but  that)  ;  a  long,  straight  road  lay  between 
fields,  dark  and  solitary,  mere  masses  of  shadow, 
over  which  a  struggling  ray  of  moonlight  fell  as 
the  clouds  drifted  or  parted. 

My  guardian's  house  was  a  large,  square,  ugly 
building  of  gray  stone,  standing  back  from  the  road, 
and  surrounded  by  a  thick  hedge.  Elm  and  ash 
trees  waved  leafless  branches  in  the  adjoining 
grounds ;  the  garden  was  allowed  to  run  wild  at  its 
own  sweet  will.  In  the  distance,  that  everlasting 
feature  of  the  landscape,  the  castle  ruins,  towered 
in  broken  desolation.  It  was  a  dreary-looking  place 
seen  under  that  brooding  sky,  and  my  eyes  roved 
over  it  with  little  interest.  My  new  acquaintance 
checked  the  horse,  and  the  boy  came  to  its  head. 

"Thank  you  for  your  kindness,"  I  murmured 
somewhat  lamely,  as  my  belongings  were  handed  to 
me.  I  stood  at  the  gate,  which  he  held  open.  My 
arms  were  full  and  I  had  no  hand  to  extend.  He 
lifted  his  hat,  smiled  and  said,  "A  pleasure,  miss,  I 
assure  you,"  then  turned  back  and  sprang  into  his 
trap. 

"Miss,"  I  repeated,  as  I  marched  up  the  graveled 
pathway  leading  to  the  front  door.  "Fancy  calling 
me — 'miss.'  But  then  he  isn't  a  gentleman." 

I  rang  the  bell,  and  after  an  interval  the  door  was 
opened  by  the  old  woman  who  served  as  house- 
keeper to  my  uncle.  Mrs.  Graddage  was  her  name. 


A   JILT'S   JOURNAL.  19 

She  was  a  sour  old  person,  with  the  soul  of  a  Primi- 
tive Methodist,  and  a  general  belief  in  the  wicked- 
ness of  all  things  young  and  comely.  I  was  no  fav- 
orite of  hers. 

I  gave  my  usual  greeting  as  I  stepped  inter  the 
hall,  and  she  surveyed  me  critically  under  the  hang- 
ing oil-lamp. 

"You've  growed,"  she  announced.  "Quite  a 
young  woman,  I  declare " 

Then  she  commenced  a  quotation  from  her  fav- 
orite Proverbs  of  Solomon. 

"Where's  the  professor?"  I  interrupted.  "Has 
he  remembered  I'm  coming  home?" 

"He's  in  the  study,"  she  said  curtly.    "Busy." 

"Oh!  well,  I  won't  disturb  him.  I'll  go  to  my 
room.  When  will  tea  be  ready?  I'm  tired  and  cold 
and  hungry." 

?Twill  be  ready  at  six.  You  know  the  master's 
hours  as  well  as  I  do.  Who  drove  you  from  the 
train  ?  I  heard  the  sound  o'  wheels." 

"A — friend,"  I  said  mendaciously.  "Apparently 
everyone  here  forgot  me.  I  had  to  depend  on  a 
stranger's  courtesy,  or " 

"I  thought  'twas  a  friend  you  mentioned,"  she 
said,  with  a  sharp  glance  at  my  face. 

"A  friend  in  need,"  I  answered,  beginning  to 
mount  the  steps.  "I  do  hope  you've  lit  a  fire  in  my 
room,  Graddy?" 

She  hated  me  to  call  her  that ;  so  I  often  did  it,  to 
accustom  her  to  the  Christian  duty  of  forbearance. 

She  made  no  answer,  but  her  stiff  skirts  rustled 
aggressively  as  she  retired  to  her  own  regions.  I 
mounted  the  stairs  and  turned  into  my  usual  bed- 
room. There  was  a  fire  crackling  and  blazing 
brightly  in  the  grate,  and  a  lamp  stood  on  the  table, 


20  A!  JILT'S   JOURNAL. 

shedding  a  warm  glow  over  the  stiffly  arranged 
furniture.  A  pleasant-looking  girl  with  dark  hair 
and  rosy  cheeks  was  drawing  down  the  blind  as  I 
entered. 

"Welcome  home,  miss,"  she  said,  dropping  me  a 
curtsey. 

"Who  are  you?"  I  asked. 

"I'm  the  niece  of  Aunt  Anne  Graddage.  She's 
taken  me  on  as  parlormaid,  now  you've  come  to 
live  here,  miss.  And  I'm  to  wait  on  you." 

"Oh !  is  that  it  ?    What's  your  name  ?" 

"Merrieless  Hibbs,  please,  miss,  at  your  service." 

I  stared.     "Merrieless — what  a  strange  name!" 

"It  is,  miss.  But  being  baptized,  why  it's  my 
name,  and  I  have  to  be  satisfied  with  it." 

"It  doesn't  suit  your  appearance  at  all  events,"  I 
said,  looking  at  her  rosy  face  and  bright,  dark  eyes. 
"Merry,  without  the  last  syllable,  would  express  you 
better." 

"Just  as  you  please,  miss,"  she  answered  with 
another  curtsey.  "And  is  there  anything  I  can  do 
for  you  ?" 

"You  can  bring  me  some  warm  water,  if  you  will ; 
and  I  believe  there's  an  old  pair  of  slippers  knocking 
about  somewhere  that  I  left  behind  last  holidays. 
My  feet  are  numbed  in  these  boots." 

"They're  by  the  fire,  miss.  I  found  them  and  put 
them  ready  in  case  your  box  shouldn't  arrive  with 
you." 

"That  shows  you've  got  some  sense,  Merry,"  I 
observed  approvingly. 

"I'm  sure  I  hope  I  shall  please  you,  miss,"  she 
answered.  "I've  only  had  one  place,  and  it  was  a 
very  hard  one.  I  thought  it  would  be  nice  to  come 
where  a  young  lady  was." 


A  JILT'S   JOURNAL.  21 

"Oh !  I  dare  say  we  shall  get  on,"  I  answered. 

Then  she  left  to  fetch  the  can  of  hot  water  for 
which  I  had  asked,  and  my  fancy  took  a  flying  leap 
into  the  future,  and  showed  me  playing  the  adored 
mistress  to  a  devoted  maid,  and  various  imaginary 
benefits  descending  upon  her  in  consequence.  At  all 
events  she  was  a  novel  and  pleasant  addition  to  the 
household,  bringing  a  breath  of  young  life  and 
young  interest  to  vary  its  monotony. 

Between  us  we  might  manage  to  get  some  fun 
even  out  of  such  unpromising  subjects  as  a  profes- 
sor of  archaeology  and  Aunt  Anne  Graddage. 


CHAPTER  III. 

WITH  the  first  summons  of  the  tea  bell  I  entered 
what  Mrs.  Graddage  termed  the  "parlor,"  and 
found  the  professor  standing  with  his  back  to  the 
fire,  his  hands  thrust  under  his  coat-tails,  and  his 
spectacles  pushed  up  from  his  nose  and  resting  on 
the  ridge  of  his  high  forehead. 

I  went  toward  him  with  hand  extended.  "How 
do  you  do,  professor?" 

His  absent-minded  glance  swept  over  me.  Then 
he  shook  hands  in  a  loose  and  equally  absent-minded 
fashion. 

"I  am  pleased  to  see  you,  Paula,  and  looking  so — 
so  well.  You  have  grown — ah — considerably." 

He  had  a  way  of  pausing  between  words  as  if 
,  searching  for  one  to  express  an  escaping  thought. 

"I  think  I  have.  And  you — I — I  hope  you  are 
quite  well  ?" 

"Yes,  my  dear,  I  believe  so."  He  looked  vaguely 
round  the  room.  "Never  better,"  he  went  on  sud- 
denly, "never,  so  to  say,  ah — better.  Will  you 
pour  out  the  tea,  my  dear?  You  must  need — re- 
freshment after  your  journey." 

"Did  you  remember  that  I  was  to  arrive  to- 
night ?"  I  asked,  as  I  seated  myself  at  the  table. 

It  was  spread  with  a  homely,  and  to  a  schoolgirl 
eminently  satisfactory  meal  of  hot  cakes,  scones, 
marmalade,  and  thick  bread  and  butter.  The  pro- 
fessor would  never  eat  a  thin-cut,  as  introduced  by 
the  fashion  of  afternoon  teas. 

22 


A  JILT'S   JOURNAL.  23 

"Remember?  Of  course  I  did.  I — ah — told 
Mrs.  Graddage." 

"You  sent  no  one  to  meet  me.  It  was  dark  and 
rainy,  and  the  train  was  nearly  an  hour  late.  How- 
ever, one  of  the  farmers  in  the  neighborhood  gave 
me  a  lift  in  his  cart.  It  was  very  kind  of  him — 
but  I  quite  forgot  to  ask  his  name." 

He  ruffled  up  his  scanty  gray  hair  and  surveyed 
me  with  that  perplexed  air  that  I  always  managed 
to  arouse  in  him. 

"A — ah — farmer,  you  say?  I  regret  you  have 
been  so  inconvenienced.  It  slipped  my  memory ; 
the  fact  that  you  would  expect  to  be  met  by  a — ah 
— conveyance.  I  trust  you  arrived — safely." 

"I  suppose  I  did,  seeing  that  I  am  here,"  I  an- 
swered. But  I  knew  of  old  that  to  attempt  to  wake 
a  sense  of  humor,  even  at  his  own  oddities,  in  the 
professor  was  a  hopeless  task. 

He  drank  his  tea  and  commenced  on  the  thick 
bread  and  butter  with  an  expression  of  absent- 
minded  content.  I  followed  his  example  as  far  as 
the  food  and  the  content  were  concerned.  Our 
meals  were  usually  signalized  by  silent  enjoyment. 

"Have  you  made  any  new  discoveries  about  the 
castle?"  I  asked  at  last. 

His  face  lightened  to  animation.  "Yes,"  he  said. 
"Oh!  yes.  I  have  traced  the  herring-bone  masonry 
to  its  origin,  in  fact  as  far  as  A.D.  690.  The  keep 
was  built  in  1075,  as  you  know.  The  great  dispute, 
of  course,  has  been  the  discrepancy  of  dates  con- 
necting the  abbey  and  the  castle  in  history.  I  have 
never  believed  that  the  latter  was  built  by  a  Saxon 
king.  Quinton  Lacy  was  once  a  royal  manor  and 
its  bounds  included  the  land  and  the  hill  whereon  the 
castle  stands.  The  abbey  possessed  the  hill  and  held 


24  A  JILT'S   JOUKNAL. 

it  till  after  the  Norman  Conquest.  That  doesn't 
agree  with  the  story  of  the  martyr  to  whom  the 
church  here  is  dedicated.  In  fact,  the  history  of  the 
castle  has  been  overladen  with  fiction,  and  kept  up 
by  romance.  I  have  been  involved  in  many  disputes 
concerning  the  authenticity  of — ah — its  records. 
But  I  maintain  my  point,  and  I — ah — shall  prove 
it." 

This  information  did  not  interest  me  at  all.  My 
life  seemed  to  flash  out  of  a  mass  of  dusty  historical 
records  as  a  fresh  piece  of  martyrdom  connected 
with  Scarffe  and  its  castle. 

I  knew,  however,  that  when  my  uncle  was  once 
started  on  his  hobby  nothing  would  stop  him,  so  I 
let  him  ramble  on  while  I  turned  my  attention  to 
the  home-made  scones  and  marmalade.  When  my 
appetite  was  appeased  I  gave  my  thoughts  up  to 
the  consideration  of  myself  in  new  surroundings 
and  amidst  a  life  that  offered  the  sharpest  possible 
contrast  to  that  of  my  school  days.  Was  there  any 
important  part  here  for  me  to  play  ?  Any  role  that 
would  place  Paula  as  centre  of  dramatic  results? 

It  looked  highly  improbable. 

This  strange  old  man,  wrapped  in  his  researches, 
whose  whole  existence  was  bound  up  with  dates 
and  parchments  and  the  architecture  of  stones,  what 
could  he  be  to  me  save  the  shadow  of  all  the  pro- 
tective kindliness  that  makes  of  that  word  home  an 
idyl  and  a  sanctuary? 

For  me  the  word  held  naught  of  love,  and  but 
scant  idealism. 

I  moved,  a  lonely  unit,  among  its  manifold  mean- 
ings, and  grasped  none.  There  was  no  one  to  please ; 
no  one  to  care  what  I  did,  or  left  undone.  No  one 
to  question  of  school  days  and  their  import,  no  one 


A   JILT'S   JOURNAL.  25 

to  heed  what  youth  might  dream  or  seek  amidst  the 
undiscovered  treasures  of  the  future. 

A  gentle  melancholy  stole  over  me. 

By  the  time  the  professor  had  prosed  himself  into 
a  renewed  interest  with  the  work  he  was  compiling, 
I  had  played  the  part  of  the  martyred,  the  neglected, 
the  misunderstood.  I  had  seen  my  young  life  glid- 
ing away  under  the  shadows  of  that  ancient  castle ; 
I  had  wandered,  a  lonely  girl,  a  lonely  woman,  un- 
der its  unchanging  aspect.  Nothing  of  girlhood's 
mirth  and  light-heartedness  was  to  be  my  portion. 
Even  romance  shrank  aside  and  left  me  gazing  list- 
lessly after  that  ''sweet  hand-in-hand"  companion- 
ship of  moving  figures  that  grouped  themselves  in 
the  roseate  foreground  of  illusions  I  should  never 
know. 

The  professor's  voice  aroused  me  from  my  trance. 
He  had  pushed  back  his  chair,  and  was  looking  at 
me. 

"If  you  will  excuse  me,  Paula,  I — ah — have  some 
work  to  do  in  my  study. 

The  old  formula.  I  had  heard  it  so  often.  I 
should  hear  it  so  often  still.  I  sighed  and  rose  also. 

"Of  course,  professor.  Do  not  let  me  make  any 
difference  to  your  usual  habits." 

Then  I  went  up  to  my  own  room  and  unpacked 
my  box,  and  began  a  letter  to  Lesley. 

I  had  scarcely  got  beyond  the  first  page  when  I 
was  interrupted  by  a  knock  at  the  door,  and  on  my 
answer  the  girl  Merrieless  entered. 

I  laid  down  my  pen  and  looked  inquiry. 

"If  you  please,  miss,  aunt  sent  me  to  see  if  you 
wanted  anything,  and  help  "  Her  eyes  fell  on 
the  emptied  box.  'Oh,  you've  done  it  all  yourself, 
miss !" 


26  A  JILT'S   JOURNAL. 

"Yes,"  I  said.    "There  wasn't  much  to  do." 

She  glanced  at  my  plain  serge  frock,  and  then  at 
me,  and  then  at  the  wardrobe. 

"But  there  will  be,  miss,"  she  said  cheerfully. 
"By-and-by  when  you're  going  to  parties  and  balls 
and  such  like,  same  as  Lawyer  Triggs'  daughters — 
young  ladies,  I  mean — used  to  go  where  I  lived  be- 
fore. A  beautiful  young  lady,  miss,  like  you,  won't 
be  moping  yourself  to  death  here.  And  it  will  be 
such  a  pleasure  to  help  dress  you,  and  see  you  go  off 
in  your  satins  and  pearls,  and " 

I  laughed  aloud. 

"What  are  you  talking  about,  Merry?"  I  ex- 
claimed. "There's  as  much  probability  of  my  going 
out  to  balls  and  parties,  and  wearing  satins  and 
pearls  as — as  of  your  doing  it." 

Her  bright  face  fell.  "Oh,  miss,  is  that  true  ?  J 
can't  believe  it.  Young  ladies  always " 

"Young  ladies,"  I  interrupted,  "who  have  homes, 
and  mothers  and  fathers  to  look  after  them;  but  I, 
Merry,  have  none." 

"No  more  than  myself,  miss,"  she  said  sym- 
pathizingly. 

"Come,  sit  down  here  and  let  us  have  a  talk,"  I 
said.  "We're  both  young,  and  though  I'm  mistress, 
and  you  are  maid,  youth  stands  for  much.  Tell  me 
your  history,  Merry?  And  I — well,  there's  nothing 
to  tell  you  about  myself  except  that  I'm  an  orphan, 
and  have  just  left  school,  and  must  spend  the  rest 
of  my  life  here." 

She  sat  down  as  I  bade  her,  and  her  large, 
bright  eyes  wandered  over  me  with  flattering 
approval. 

"It  won't  be  for  ever,  miss,"  she  said  cheerfully. 
"Nor  very  long,  perhaps.  You'll  be  getting  mar- 


A    JILT'S   JOURNAL.  27 

ried — pardon  my  freedom  in  saying  it — and  to  some 
fine-spoken,  rich,  handsome  gentleman." 

"Nonsense,"  I  said,  frowning.  "Marriage  is  a 
very  important  thing,  Merry.  It  means  something 
more  than  fine  speeches,  or  looks,  or  even  riches." 

"Love,  of  course,  miss,"  she  said  apologetically. 
"But  there's  no  fear  o'  that  not  coming  your  way." 

I  looked  at  her  with  a  little  sense  of  wonder. 

In  every  grade  of  life  the  same  thought  seemed  to 
meet  the  woman  on  the  threshold.  Love,  marriage. 
The  girls  at  school  had  discussed  them  as  the  all- 
important  factors  in  our  future.  This  uneducated 
serving  maid  was  eager  to  do  the  same.  I  found 
myself  evading  a  disquieting  truth,  and  angered 
because  it  so  persistently  faced  me.  Surely  there 
must  be  many  other  things  beside  just — Love. 

Why  was  it  ranked  so  high,  why  supposed  to 
play  so  large  a  part  in  the  existence  of  men  and 
women  ? 

Then  a  faint  curiosity  crept  into  my  mind.  I 
looked  at  Merrieless. 

"How  old  are  you?" 

"I'll  be  twenty  next  birthday,  miss,"  she  said. 

Twenty!  Surely,  with  three  years'  start  of  me 
in  the  shape  of  experience,  she  might  have  some 
personal  knowledge  of  this  great  mystery.  I  would 
rather  believe  a  person  than  a  book,  and  Friendship 
was  the  first  novel  of  modern  life  I  had  read. 

"And  have  you,"  I  asked  diffidently,  "had  any 
sort  of  experience  about — love?" 

"I've  felt  it,  miss,"  she  answered  bashfully, 
"more  than  once.  Not  in  such  gifted  language,  so 
to  say,  as  you  put  it,  but  with  a  twinge  here,  miss, 
and  a  deal  o'  misery." 

Here   evidently   represented  the  region   of  her 


28  A   JILT'S   JOURNAL. 

heart,  as  a  large  red  hand  displayed  itself  like  a 
plaster  over  the  bosom  of  her  neat,  black  gown. 

I  felt  interested.  ''More  than  once,"  I  repeated. 
"But  I  thought " 

"Ah!  miss,  don't  you  go  after  what  them  silly 
folks  in  the  story  books  says.  You  may  get  it,  and 
suffer  for  it,  but  you  don't  die  of  it." 

That  was  consoling.    My  interest  grew  apace. 

"And  what  was  it  like,  Merry,"  I  asked,  "the  first 
time?" 

"The  first  time,"  she  said  with  another  blush, 
"was  the  last  also,  miss,  with  me." 

I  felt  puzzled.  "But  I  thought  you  said  'more 
than  once,'  Merry?" 

"So  I  did,  miss,  and  so  I  meant  it.  'Twas  this 
way.  Love — as  a  new  sort  o'  feeling — that  come 
first.  'Twas  the  brightest.  It  didn't  last  longer  than 
a  quarrel  and  hasty  words,  and  a  parting.  Second 
time  'twas  a  bashful  and  who'll-speak-first  kind  o' 
business — and  then  a  making-up.  Next  'twas  the 
same  feelin'  redivived,  so  to  say,  and  we  knew  better 
than  to  believe  a  fallin'  out  was  a  everlasting  thing. 
That  was  the  best,  miss,  and  it's  still  a-goin'  on." 

"With  the  same  person,  Merry?" 

"True  for  you,  miss ;  and  my  word  on  it  that  the 
tenderest  love  o'  them  all  is  the  love  that's  redivived, 
so  to  say.  It's  his  word,  mi$s,  and  he's  a  powerful 
speaker." 

I  was  silent  for  a  moment.  The  simple  story 
afforded  a  wide  field  for  speculation. 

"Would  you  mind  telling  me,"  I  asked  at  last, 
"what  the  first  quarrel  was  about  ?" 

"A  poor  thing,  miss,  and  pitiful  enough.  Jeal- 
ousy o'  another  woman,  a  bit  prettier  than  myself, 
but  not  circumspect.  'Twas  her  powers  I  feared, 


A   JILT'S   JOURNAL.  29 

not  having  them  to  apply,  for  fear  o'  being  thought 
light-meaning." 

She  clasped  her  hands  tightly  together,  and  the 
color  faded  from  her  rosy  face.  "My  word  for  it, 
miss,  'tis  a  powerful  cruel  feeling ;  I'd  never  counsel 
anyone  to  give  way  to  it." 

"Is  it  a  case  of  giving  way,"  I  asked,  "or  can't 
help  it?" 

"Perhaps  a  matter  o'  both,  miss.  A  watery  heat 
of  the  mind  which  boils  over  and  puts  out  the  fire  of 
the  heart.  Tis  all  confusion  then — hissing  o'  steam 
and  fizzing  o'  ashes,  and  then0  clouds  o'  blackness — 
and  nothing." 

"Nothing!"  I  echoed. 

"Save  memories,"  she  said.  "Black  adders  of 
things  popping  up  their  heads  when  most  incon- 
venient ;  biting  and  thrusting  out  forked  tongues  till 
every  bit  o'  you  seems  pierced  and  stung  and  you're 
mad  with  the  poison." 

"Oh,  Merry!" 

"Just  so,  miss.  I've  been  through  it.  I  hope  you 
never  may." 

"So  do  I,  with  all  my  heart,"  I  answered.  "But 
do  you  mean  to  say  after  all  this,  Merry,  that  you 
could  believe  in  love  again;  go  back  to  the  same 
lover?" 

"It's  this  way,  miss.  You  give  up  something  o' 
yourself  when  you  love  that  never  can  come  back  to 
you  again.  And  sooner  than  lose  it,  why — you  just 
goes  after  it." 

She  said  other  things,  did  Merrieless  the  maid, 
but  nothing  that  could  beat  that  bit  of  philosophy. 
So  I  wrote  it  down  in  my  journal,  long  after  she 
had  left  me  to-night,  and  solitude,  and  my  own  re- 
flections. 


30  A   JILT'S   JOURNAL. 

After  all,  expressed  in  more  homely  fashion,  it 
only  echoed  the  words  scribbled  in  my  book — the 
chance  words  that  had  met  me  on  the  threshold  of 
life. 

"Yet  there  is  one  that  comes  before  the  rest. 
And  there  is  one  that  stays  when  all  are  gone." 


CHAPTER  IV. 

I  SOON  settled  down  into  the  routine  of  life  at 
Scarffe. 

Even  Christmas  day  was  much  like  any  other  day. 
Mrs.  Graddage  proposed  a  variation  in  the  dinner 
hour,  making  it  seven  o'clock  instead  of  two,  and 
abolishing  the  nine-o'clock  supper,  a  frugal  meal 
which  finished  the  day,  but  otherwise  there  was  no 
difference. 

I  walked  to  the  old  church  of  Quinton  Lacy  in  the 
morning  for  service,  and  saw  my  farmer  friend  and 
his  family  in  one  of  the  pews.  A  hale,  rosy-cheeked 
old  man,  undoubtedly  his  father,  two  apple-faced 
girls,  pretty  enough  in  their  own  dairymaid,  plump 
and  smiling  fashion,  and  my  friend  of  the  train, 
wearing  black  broadcloth  as  though  to  the  manner 
born,  and  looking  decidedly  handsome,  in  a  manly, 
assertive  fashion. 

Just  as  the  service  began,  a  rustle  of  silks  and 
skirts,  and  a  faint  exotic  perfume  arrested  my  atten- 
tion. There  appeared  in  the  principal  pew,  belong- 
ing, I  had  heard,  to  the  county  magnate,  Lord  St. 
Quinton,  a  party  of  men  and  women  who  embodied 
in  their  appearance  that  essence  of  a  world  beyond 
and  apart  from  country  boorishness,  that  is  a  special 
distinction. 

One  woman  especially  attracted  me.  She  had  a 
lovely,  impertinent  face,  eyes  blue  as  a  turquoise 
and  hair  that  shone  like  burnished  gold  as  the  sun 

31 


32  'A   JILT'S   JOURNAL. 

rays  fell  on  it  from  the  window  above  her  head. 
The  service  evidently  bored  her.  I  have  no  doubt  it 
was  a  vastly  different  thing  from  that  of  a  fashion- 
able London  church.  Once  or  twice  I  caught  her 
roving  glance,  and  it  steadied  into  a  critical  observa- 
tion of  myself  that  made  me  almost  nervous. 

I  quitted  the  church  before  the  party  from  Quin- 
ton  Court,  and  gave  a  somewhat  envious  glance  at 
the  prancing  horses  and  fine  liveries  of  the  waiting- 
carriages. 

Then  I  took  the  road  back  to  Scarffe,  passing  or 
being  passed  by  other  stragglers  going  the  same 
way.  Once  a  step  halted  by  my  side,  the  owner 
giving  a  half-shy  "Good  morning — and  a  merry 
Christmas  to  you,  Miss  Trent,"  as  he  passed  on.  It 
was  my  friend  of  the  train  again.  He  was  alone, 
and  I  wondered  why  he  had  parted  with  his  family 
belongings. 

I  watched  him  going  along  the  road  at  a  brisk, 
even  pace,  nodding  right  and  left,  giving  and  re- 
ceiving greetings.  Evidently  he  was  well  known. 
I  began  to  feel  some  curiosity  respecting  him.  I 
should  like  to  have  asked  his  name.  He  was  evi- 
dently quite  aware  of  mine. 

Instead  of  going  home  I  took  a  short  cut  across 
the  fields,  and  went  up  to  the  castle  hill. 

The  ruins  had  long  been  closed  to  visitors  except 
by  payment,  but  I  proffered  my  dole  and  passed  in 
through  the  massive  towers  of  the  gateway.  The 
sun  was  shining  gloriously,  the  air  was  keen  and 
exhilarating.  The  grand  old  pile,  with  its  shroud- 
ing ivy  and  mellow-tinted  stone,  looked  down  se- 
renely on  the  little,  gray  roofs  below. 

I  always  regarded  that  castle  with  a  kind  of  awe. 
It  was  so  old,  so  terribly  old.  It  had  seen  so  much, 


A   JILTS   JOURNAL.  33 

and  suffered  such  stress  of  fortune ;  it  held  the  his- 
tory of  peopled  centuries  that  to  me  were  but  school- 
book  records.  Men  and  armies  had  lived  and  moved 
and  fought,  and  loved  and  died  on  this  same  spot 
where  I  stood ;  gazed,  as  I  was  gazing,  at  the  quiet 
fields,  and  the  babbling  stream  running  under  its 
arched  stone  bridge;  held  that  ruined  drawbridge 
against  savage  foes;  seen  dynasties  change,  and 
tasted  of  good  and  evil  fortune.  And  now  they 
were  dead  and  forgotten,  yet  the  old  ruin  stood  and 
conquered  Time,  and  spoke  in  every  tower  and  stone 
and  buttress  of  those  far-off  centuries,  and  the  deeds 
done  in  them. 

Men  had  known  how  to  work  in  those  days,  and 
had  not  shirked  it.  Arrow  and  axe,  and  steel  and 
shot,  had  done  their  best  to  destroy  this  fortress, 
and  failed.  Generation  after  generation  had  come 
to  gaze  at  it  and  wonder.  It  looked  as  if  genera- 
tions yet  unborn  would  do  the  same. 

I  climbed  up  the  old  stone  stairway  of  the  dun- 
geon tower,  which  was  my  favorite  point  of  view. 
Here  I  perched  myself,  and  despite  the  wind,  which 
has  a  rare  fancy  for  those  heights,  I  sat  gazing 
down  at  the  magnificent  expanse  of  country  lying 
to  east  and  west. 

Few  visitors  came  to  the  castle  in  the  winter  sea- 
son, and  I  was  surprised  to  see  another  figure  saun- 
tering through  the  arch  and  across  the  grassy  space 
below  my  tower. 

"It  looks  remarkably  like  my  farmer  friend,"  I 
thought,  and  felt  vexed  at  the  thought. 

Presently  I  heard  steps  coming  up  the  stone 
stairs,  mounting  higher,  approaching  nearer,  until 
a  sudden  exclamation  forced  me  to  look  round. 

"We  seem  fated  to  meet,"  I  said. 


34  A   JILT'S   JOURNAL. 

He  took  off  his  soft  felt  hat  ceremoniously.  "It 
does  look  like  it,"  he  answered.  "I  should  never 
have  dreamt  that  a  young  lady  would  choose  a  lone- 
ly place  like  this  to  come  to." 

"I  like  lonely  places,"  I  said.  "Apparently  you  do 
the  same." 

"Oh,  I  often  come  here  when  I've  leisure.  I  love 
every  stone  of  the  old  place,"  he  added  almost  rev- 
erently. 

"How  speech  lends  itself  to  exaggeration,"  I  said 
flippantly.  "Do  you  mean  every  stone?" 

He  looked  at  me — a  puzzled  gaze  that  seemed  to 
ask  whether  I  was  mocking  what  was  a  serious  mat- 
ter to  himself. 

"I  mean — I  just  love  it  all,  ruin  or  no  ruin. 
These  stones  have  a  history  for  me.  I  know  the 
names  of  ward  and  keep  and  tower,  as  well  as  I 
know  the  look  of  the  skies  above  them.  You  see," 
he  went  on  apologetically,  "I  was  born  and  bred 
under  shadow  of  the  castle.  There  seems  no  time 
to  me  when  I  didn't  look  up  at  this  hill  and  see  sun- 
shine, or  rain,  smite,  or  clouds  enfold  it.  Every 
aspect  is  as  familiar  as  the  signs  of  the  seasons.  It 
says  'home'  to  me  when  I  travel  the  country  round 
and  catch  sight  of  it — so  true  and  strong,  standing 
between  the  hills  that  have  known  it  nigh  on  eight 
hundred  years.  It  seemed  hard  to  believe  at  first, 
but  now — well,  it's  told  me  so  much  of  itself  that 
there's  nothing  too  wonderful  for  me  to  credit." 

"You  are  as  great  an  enthusiast  as  the  professor," 
I  said  carelessly.  "It  strikes  me  I  shall  have  a  sur- 
feit of  the  castle  ruins  before  I  have  done  with 
Scarffe." 

"The  professor;  you  mean  your  uncle,  the  old 
gentleman  who  is  always  exploring  around  here?" 


A   JILT'S   JOURNAL.  85 

I  laughed  slightly.  "He  is  a  great  and  learned 
authority  on  architecture  and  everything  belonging 
to  it,"  I  said.  "He  knows  more  about  the  celebrated 
and  uncelebrated  ruins  of  England  than  any  other 
archaeologist." 

"So  I  have  heard,"  he  answered.  "But  I  often 
think  that  to  know  too  much  of  a  subject  is  to  lose 
all  sense  of  its  charm.  For  my  part,  I  would  rather 
keep  the  romance  of  the  castle  unimpaired  than 
make  researches  which  throw  doubt  or  discredit  on 
the  old  stories." 

I  looked  at  him  with  unqualified  surprise.  I  had 
not  expected  to  hear  a  farmer's  son  talk  like  this. 

"Do  you  know  the  professor  at  all  ?"  I  asked. 

"We  have  spoken  odd  times.  But  I  think  he  is 
an  old  gentleman  who  very  quickly  forgets  faces." 

Again  I  laughed.  "I  doubt  if  he  ever  sees  them, 
except  in  some  inward  fashion.  His  eyes  always 
look  as  if  he  were  classifying  inanimate  objects.  A 
dress  represents  a  woman,  and  a  coat  and  a  pair  of 
— I  mean  hat,  represents  a  man,  .and  that's  about 
all." 

It  was  his  turn  to  laugh  now.  "That's  a  very 
good  description,"  he  said.  "But — may  I  ask,  Miss 
Trent,  are  you  not  cold  sitting  there?  The  position 
is  exposed,  and  when  the  wind  blows  anywhere  it 
never  fails  to  give  this  hill  a  turn." 

I  was  cold,  and  not  sorry  to  dismount  from  my 
perch.  We  descended  the  stairway,  and  then  came 
to  a  pause  under  the  shelter  of  the  King's  Tower. 
Here  it  was  delightfully  warm  and  snug,  and  my 
new  acquaintance  seemed  to  take  my  acceptance  of 
his  company  for  granted. 

"How  did  your  party  go  off?"  I  asked  him. 

"Party?"   ' 


36  A   JILT'S   JOURNAL. 

"Last  night.  The  Christmas  tree  and  the  dance 
you  told  me  about." 

"Oh,  I  believe  'twas  greatly  enjoyed,  but  I  didn't 
see  much  of  it." 

"How  is  that?" 

"Something  spoiled  it  for  me,"  he  said,  slowly, 
"and  I  got  thinking." 

I  should  like  to  have  asked  him  about  the  subject 
of  his  thoughts,  but  my  ignorance  of  class-habits  or 
class-prejudices  kept  me  silent. 

He  began  to  tell  me  about  my  neighbors,  both 
here  and  at  Quinton  Lacy.  Of  himself,  his  school- 
days, and  his  family.  He  spoke  well  and  sensibly. 
When  animated  his  face  brightened  and  grew  al- 
most handsome.  He  awoke  considerable  interest  in 
my  mind,  though  behind  it  all  that  curious  vanity  of 
mine  was  asking  what  sort  of  interest  I  had  aroused 
in  his. 

I  had  no  desire  to  play  the  mere  ordinary  girl 
talking  to  the  mere  ordinary  young  man.  I  hoped  I 
had  dropped  school-missishness,  but  I  was  not 
certain. 

"You  will  soon  be  knowing  the  great  folk  at 
Quinton  Court,"  he  said  presently.  "Then  it  won't 
be  so  dull  for  you." 

"Yes,  I  suppose  they'll  call,"  I  answered,  all  the 
more  confidently  because  I  had  supposed  nothing  of 
the  sort  till  his  suggestion.  "My  uncle  is  not  rich," 
I  went  on,  "but  I  believe  he  is  quite  well  known  in 
the  scientific  world.  He  goes  to  London  every  year." 

"He  will  be  taking  you  with  him  next  time?" 

"I  hope  so.  My  greatest  friend  lives  in  London. 
She  has  invited  me  to  stay  with  her  when  I  go 
there." 

"I  know  London,"  he  said. 


A   JILT'S   JOURNAL.  37 

"You!" 

I  could  not  help  a  genuine  feeling  of  astonish- 
ment. 

"Why  not?  We  all  travel  cityward  nowadays. 
Too  many,  I  often  think.  The  depopulation  of  the 
country  is  its  greatest  danger.  All  its  youth  and 
strength  and  blood  pour  themselves  into  that  great 
seething  vat  of  the  towns,  to  gain  wealth  at  any 
sacrifice." 

His  gaze  rested  lovingly  on  the  dark,  low-lying 
fields  and  brooding  hills,  then  swept  upward  to  the 
stately  ruin  that  seemed  always  guarding  them  in 
overshadowing  might. 

He  appeared  to  have  forgotten  me  for  the  time. 
I  recalled  his  wandering  attention. 

"Wealth  is  a  good  thing,"  I  said.  "It  is  the 
greatest  power  of  life.  You  can  do  anything  if  you 
are  only  rich  enough." 

"Can  you?"  he  said  gravely.  "Anything?  I 
think  not.  Wealth  can't  purchase  happiness  or 
health,  or  the  love  of  a  single  human  heart.  And 
nothing  in  life  is  better  than  love,  Miss  Trent." 

Again  that  same  assertion,  this  time  from  a  man's 
lips.  With  a  view  of  getting  at  both  sides  of  the 
question,  I  settled  myself  comfortably  into  my  warm 
niche  and  prepared  for  controversy.  I  could  hardly 
ask  him  directly  what  I  had  asked  Merrieless,  so  I 
tried  strategy. 

"You  say  that  as  if  you  had  found  it  out  for 
yourself.  Are  you  married?" 

"I!" The  color  mounted  to  his  forehead. 

"Oh,  no !  I  haven't  so  much  as  thought  about  it — 
yet." 

"Then,  perhaps,  you're  what  they  call  'keeping 
company'  ?" 


as  A   JILT'S   JOUKNAL. 

The  flush  faded,  and  his  lips  set  themselves 
tightly,  as  I  had  noticed  they  could  do.  His  voice 
held  a  defiant  respectfulness. 

"That's  foolish  sort  of  talk,"  he  said;  "and, 
though  I'm  yeoman  born  and  bred,  I  don't  make 
myself  cheap  as  farm-hands  do.  I've  read  a  great 
deal,  and  thought  more;  the  sort  of  thought  that 
comes  to  a  man  under  wide  skies,  and  with  the  long 
starlit  nights  when  he  lets  Nature  speak  to  him. 
It's  wonderful  what  she  can  teach."  His  voice 
softened,  those  blue  eyes  went  again  to  ruined  tower 
and  ivied  keep.  "And  she  tells  no  lies,"  he  added. 
"Books  do  and  men,  aye — and  women,  too.  But 
not  Nature ;  never  Nature.  She's  the  grandest  book 
of  Truth  ever  written,  and  'tis  the  finger  of  God 
that  has  touched  her  pages." 

I  was  silent.  A  sort  of  pent-up  force  within  him 
seemed  to  have  burst  into  words,  and  they  were 
words  with  a  new  meaning  for  me. 

My  fancy  went  off  on  one  of  its  usual  canters, 
but  this  time  it  was  racing  through  a  field  of  specu- 
lation. Nature — he  was  a  son  of  Nature's  breeding. 
A  son  of  the  soil,  with  the  blood  of  toiling  ancestry 
in  his  veins.  Yet,  beside  him,  I  felt  suddenly  in- 
significant. All  my  book-learning,  all  my  smatter- 
ing of  languages,  'ologies  and  accomplishments 
were  suddenly  dwarfed.  He  towered  beside  my 
puny  complacency  by  right  of  a  simple  nature  speak- 
ing out  Life's  simple  truth.  And  to  him  also  that 
truth  was  Love,  with  its  strength  and  self-sacrifice, 
and  divine  power. 

So  little — yet  so  much. 

I  longed  to  ask  him  had  he  realized  all  this?  If 
to  him — as  to  that  simple  country  maid — love  had 
taught  more  "than  them  silly  story  books  say."  But 


A   JILT'S   JOURNAL.  39 

I  could  not  do  it.  There  was  something1  in  his 
face  that  silenced  idle  curiosity.  The  embarrass- 
ment of  sexual  difference,  hitherto  unknown,  held 
my  glib  tongue  abashed  and  dumb. 

He  spoke  presently.     He  was  the  farmer  again. 

"Your  pardon,  miss.  I  don't  know  what  made 
me  speak  so.  It's  not  young  lady's  sort  of  talk. 
But  when  a  man  gets  thinking " 

"I  know,"  I  said  quietly.  "It's  a  comfort  to 
speak  it  out." 

"That's  just  it.     But " 

His  doubtful  glance  amused  me.  "Oh!  even 
school-girls  think,"  I  said. 

"It  takes  the  soreness  from  the  heart  like  sun- 
shine after  rain,"  he  went  on.  "Only  the  sunshine 
never  warms  you  unless  it's " 

"Comprehensive?"  I  asked. 

"The  very  word.  You've  a  clever  brain,  young 
as  you  look." 

"Seventeen,"  I  said  with  dignity. 

His  smile  was  indulgent.  "And  I  am  twenty- 
seven.  A  wide  bit  of  difference,  miss." 

"I  wish  you  wouldn't  call  me  that,"  I  said 
pettishly. 

"It  comes,  with  a  way  you  have  of  putting  me  in 
my  place,"  he  apologized.  "I  hope  I  don't  forget  it. 
But — although  a  farmer's  son,  I'm  well  educated, 
and  fairly  well  read,  and  not  altogether  concerned 
with  ploughing,  and  sowing,  and  breeding  cattle." 

"Farming  must  be  rather  tiring  work?" 

"I  like  it  in  its  place  and  season,"  he  said  quietly. 

"From  year's  end  to  year's  beginning?" 

"There's  waiting  times  between." 

"And  then?" 

"One  thinks,"  he  said,  "and  dreams," 


40  A   JILT'S   JOUENAL. 

Then  my  Paul  Pry  bestirred  itself. 

"What  do  you  dream  about?"  I  asked  softly. 

His  glance  turned  to  the  massive  heights,  over 
which  the  blue  sky  bent  and  smiled. 

"The  deeds  done  there"  he  said.  "The  courage 
that  made  the  land  what  it  is  to-day." 

"And  never,"  I  asked,  "of  the  fair  ladies  who 
lived  here  also,  and  inspired  that  courage?" 

"Sometimes,"  he  said.  "But,  though  the  same 
courage  beats  in  men's  hearts  to-day,  I  often  think 
the  power  to  inspire  it  has  passed  from  the  fair 
ladies'  hands." 

"Why?" 

"I  told  you  I  had  known  something  of  the  life  of 
cities." 

"But  they  hold  the  very  pearl  of  womanhood. 
All  that  is  cultured,  and  brilliant,  and  beauti- 
ful  " 

"And  vile,"  he  said  curtly.  "I  beg  your  pardon, 
I  shouldn't  have  said  that.  Such  things  won't 
come  your  way.  You're  but  a  flower  now,  and  you 
think  only  of  the  sun  that  will  ripen  your  bloom,  not 
of  the  rain  and  the  wind  that  can  smite  it  to  the 
dust — to  the  dust,"  he  echoed  vaguely,  "as  I've  seen 
women's  beauty  smitten." 

I  thought  of  Prince  lo  and  Lady  Joan,  and  Etoile 
broken-hearted  in  her  lonely  Roman  palace.  Was 
this  a  phase  of  life — the  life  of  cities;  of  the  great 
world,  of  womanhood,  to  which  a  girl's  dreams  are 
the  prelude? 

His  voice  recalled  me.  It  was  once  more 
apologetic. 

"I'm  sure  I  don't  know  why  I  talk  to  you  so 
freely.  It's  not  often  my  way  with  folk;  maidens 
especially." 


A   JILT'S   JOURNAL.  41 

The  quaint  term  pleased  me. 

"I  like  to  hear  you,"  I  said.  "I  hope  you  will 
always  talk  to  me  as  if  you  knew  I — understood." 

"There's  no  doubt  o'  that,"  he  said,  "no  doubt 
whatever.  But  perhaps  you'll  be  thinking  it  a 
liberty  on  my  part  when  you're  gone  away,  or 
grown  up." 

"I  wish,"  I  said,  "you  wouldn't  treat  me  as  if  I 
were  so  very  young.  I  assure  you  I  feel  quite 
grown  up  enough." 

"Only  seventeen,"  he  muttered  absently,  "and 
twenty-seven.  Seventeen  from  twenty-seven  and 
ten  remains.  And  what  a  deal  of  experience  one 
can  gather  into  ten  years!" 

"I  wonder,"  I  said  suddenly,  "if  I  shall  be  back 
here  in  another  ten  years'  time,  and  my  experience 
gathered?" 

"May  it  be  a  good  one,  a  bright  one,"  he  said 
fervently.  "For  you've  the  face  to  draw  men's 
hearts  to  you,  and  the  tongue  to  win  them,  and 
it's  not  always  a  safe  power,  miss,  nor  wisely 
used." 

"I  wish  you'd  tell  me  your  name,"  I  said  abruptly. 
"I'd  like  to  know  it." 

"I  thought  you  did.  It's  well  known  here,  father 
and  son  for  generations  past.  Herivale  it  is,  miss 
— Adam  Herivale  at  your  service." 

"At  my  service?"  I  echoed,  fancy  playing  once 
more  with  the  literal  meaning  of  words  grown 
meaningless  through  centuries  of  formal  usage. 
"Suppose  I  should  ever  claim  such  service,  Mr. 
Adam  Herivale?" 

"It  will  be  yours,"  he  said  simply.  "And  not 
'Mr.,'  if  you  please,  Miss  Trent,  but  only  plain 
Adam  Herivale — yeoman  born,  as  I  said  before — 


42  A   JILT'S   JOURNAL. 

who  is  your  servant  and  faithful  friend  if  you  will 
so  honor  him." 

I  looked  up  quickly  at  the  earnest  face,  the  deep 
blue  eyes,  full  of  steadfast  purpose.  A  man  to  trust 
undoubtedly — to  trust,  and  reverence  and  believe  in. 

Quite  involuntarily  I  stretched  out  my  hand. 
He  took  it,  and  a  pleased  smile  parted  his  lips. 

"And  now  I  must  go  home — Adam  Herivale,"  I 
said. 


CHAPTER  V. 

MERRY  brought  me  some  tea  to  my  bedroom  at 
five  o'clock,  and  found  me  writing. 

I  pushed  the  papers  aside,  glad  to  have  some  one 
to  talk  to. 

"Oh,  what  a  long  day!"  I  said,  "and  two  hours 
still  to  dinner." 

"I  suppose  it  is  terrible  lonesome,  miss,"  she  said 
sympathizingly,  as  she  drew  a  dwarf  table  up  to  the 
fire  and  then  placed  the  tray  upon  it.  "But  you 
went  to  church,  and  had  a  longish  bit  o'  walking. 
Didn't  that  pass  the  time?" 

"Oh !  yes.     I  was  up  at  the  castle." 

"  "Pis  all  the  place  seemingly,  miss.  One  never 
loses  sight  o'  it  anywheres.  Wonderful  old  it  is 
they  do  say !  I  didn't  believe  Aunt  Anne  Graddage 
when  she  told  me  first  that  it  was  there  time  o'  the 
ancient  Britons  and  Norming  Conquists.  But 
every  one  I  know  here  says  the  same,  even  Gregory 
Blox." 

"Who  is  Gregory  Blox?"  I  asked. 

"Him  as  I  told  you  about,  miss." 

"Oh!  And  does  he  live  here,  in  the  neigh- 
borhood?" 

"At  Woodcote  Farm,  miss;  Farmer  Herivale's 
place  near  Quinton  Lacy.  Mostly  called  Heri- 
vale's." 

I  grew  interested. 

"You  can  wait  till  I  have  finished  my  tea,"  I  said ; 

43 


44  A   JILT'S   JOURNAL. 

"and  tell  me  about — Gregory  and  the  farm.  What 
does  he  do?" 

"Helps  with  the  cattle,  and  field  work  summer- 
time, miss.  His  father's  an  ancient  man,  and  has 
been  on  the  Herivale's  farm  nigh  upon  sixty  years, 
and  they  took  on  Gregory  to  oblige.  'Twasn't  the 
trade  he  wanted.  He's  a  blacksmith  by  nat'ral  in- 
clination. 'Twas  part  filial  duty  as  brought  him 
back  here,  his  father  being  a  widower,  but  with  a 
taste  for  young  maidens  that  seems  a  unnat'ral 
thing  in  an  old  man.  So  Gregory  came  to  see  as  he 
didn't  get  into  harm.  A  healthful  stretch  o'  the 
mind,  miss,  toward  woman-folk  is  all  very  well  in 
the  prime  o'  manhood,  but  'tis  vile  in  the  ancient, 
and  so  Gregory  told  him." 

I  began  to  think  I  should  like  to  make  acquaint- 
ance with  this  merry  old  gentleman  who  had  so  epi- 
curean a  taste  at  three  score  and  ten. 

"Tell  me  some  more,"  I  said,  pouring  out  a  fresh 
cup  of  tea.  "And  do  sit  down ;  you  look  so  uncom- 
fortable standing  there." 

"Thank  you,  miss,  and  excuse  the  liberty.  But 
as  to  more,  there's  not  much  o'  that  to  be  told.  The 
old  gentleman  doesn't  look  favoringly  on  me  since  I 
boxed  his  ears  for  trying  to  snatch  a  kiss  behind  the 
wash-house  door  one  time  I  had  been  to  the  farm 
on  an  errand.  I  had  no  thought  about  it  but  to 
teach  him  a  lesson.  Maybe  he  didn't  care  for  learn- 
ing it." 

I  laughed  unrestrainedly. 

"Did  he  tell  Gregory?" 

"No,  miss,  but  I  did;  and  it  made  things  a  bit 
unpleasant  for  the  ancient  man.  Gregory  called  him 
a  old  carrion  crow,  forever  sniffing  after  young 
flesh,  and  the  old  gentleman  didn't  like  it." 


A   JILT'S   JOURNAL.  45 

"Has  he  behaved  better  since  ?"  I  asked. 

"To  me,  miss?  Well,  I  haven't  given  him  much 
chance  for  disrespectfulness,  and  Gregory  meets  me 
in  the  village  winter  times,  when  we  go  for  a  com- 
pany walk.  But  I  doubt  he'll  be  at  his  frisky  ways 
again  come  spring.  He  was  always  powerful  taken 
up  wi'  women,  wras  Gregory's  father." 

"I  hope  the  son  doesn't  take  after  him  ?" 

"  'Twas  my  suspicioning  him  of  that  roguery, 
miss,  that  led  to  the  quarrel  I  explained  to  you  yes- 
ter  night;  but  he  had  no  thoughts  o'  light-minded- 
ness— the  Lord  forgive  me  for  the  doubt.  'Tis  a 
great  thing  to  be  well  loved  by  a  respectful  man, 
miss." 

"It  must  be,"  I  said  gravely.  "Has  Gregory  no 
brothers  and  sisters?" 

"Not  that's  known  on,  miss,  acknowledgably. 
But  what's  been  done  by  that  ancient  piece  o'  back- 
sliding is  not  for  a  modest  girl  to  speak  of." 

"Oh !"  I  murmured  uncomfortably,  feeling  I  was 
upon  too  delicate  ground.  "What  a  funny  old  per- 
son he  must  be.  I  should  like  to  see  him." 

"No  trouble  about  that,  miss.  Any  day  you  like 
to  go  to  Herivale's,  old  Gregory  is  sure  to  be  about, 
or  any  one  would  show  him  to  you.  He's  not  much 
to  look  at,  save  in  the  way  o'  waistcoats,  having  a 
fancy  for  them  long  from  top  button  downward; 
nigh  to  his  knees  they  mostly  come.  He  says  'tis  a 
worshipful  high  fashion,  and  points  a  distinction. 
But  have  a  care  o'  yourself,  miss,  for  if  his  mood  be 
lively  there's  no  sayin'  what  sly  and  untimely  things 
he  mayn't  be  sayin'." 

This  did,  indeed,  promise  interest.  I  resolved  to 
pay  a  visit  to  the  ancient  Gregory  at  the  earliest 
opportunity. 


46  A   JILT'S   JOURNAL. 

"Tell  me,"  I  said,  "do  you  know  the  names  of 
any  of  the  people  staying  at  the  Court?  There  was 
such  a  pretty  lady  with  their  party  at  church.  I 
should  like  to  know  who  she  is." 

"I  don't  know  any  names,  miss.  Only  that 
they've  a  heap  o'  visitors  for  Christmas  week,  and 
wonderful  gay  doings.  The  servants  there  come  to 
Herivale's  farm  oftentimes  for  cream  and  butter 
and  such-like,  though  they've  dairy,  and  poultry 
yards,  and  all  such  things  o'  their  own.  That's 
how  the  talk  gets  round,  miss,  from  one  to  the  other. 
Man  to  maid,  and  Gregory,  he  tell  me.  I  had  a 
chance  of  getting  service  there,  as  extra  help  in 
kitchen  work,  but  aunt  wanted  me  here.  I'm  glad 
now  I  came." 

"So  am  I,"  I  said  heartily. 

"There's  no  manner  o'  reason,  miss,  why  you 
shouldn't  be  of  the  company  up  to  the  Court,"  she 
went  on.  "Lord  St.  Quinton  calls  here  to  see  your 
uncle;  Aunt  Graddage  says  so,  and  I'm  sure  if  he 
and  her  ladyship  knew  such  a  pretty  young  lady  as 
yourself  was  so  lonesome-like,  they'd  be  having  you 
off  in  an  eye-twinkling.  Perhaps  'twill  come  about. 
They  do  think  the  old  gentleman  a  powerful  clever 
man.  And  though  he  lives  so  plain-like,  and  not 
a  satin  couch,  or  a  picture  frame  to  be  seen  in  the 
drawing-room,  I'm  told  no  one  takes  count  o'  that 
when  you're  clever." 

"Certainly  this  house  is  very  ugly,  and  hideously 
furnished,"  I  said.  "But  I  fancy  the  professor 
isn't  very  well  off,  and  he  doesn't  notice  things 
either." 

"If  they  was  brought  before  him  by  a  forcible 
word  o'  argument,  miss?"  she  suggested. 

"What  would  Aunt  Anne  Graddage  say  at  inno- 


A   JILT'S   JOURNAL.  ,47 

vations?"  I  said,  with  a  laugh.  "And  she  rules 
here,  Merry." 

"True,  miss ;  and  she's  the  powerful  strong  mind 
of  her  own,  has  aunt.  Still,  you  might  get  round 
her." 

"I  think  I'll  wait  for  the  satin  couches  and  picture 
frames,  Merry.  After  all  one  can  live  very  com- 
fortably without  grandeur." 

"Yes,  miss,"  she  assented  cheerfully.  "And  it's 
not  as  if  we  was  a  noble  family,  though  well-born  I 
make  no  mistake,  but  not  of  these  parts,  are  you, 
miss?" 

"No.  My  uncle  only  came  here  to  make  re- 
searches about  the  old  ruins.  He  is  from  quite  a 
different  county." 

"That's  as  how  I've  been  told  it  is,  miss." 

"Do  people  take  such  an  interest  in  us?" 

"Strangers  coming  to  a  place  like  this,  miss,  is  as 
good  as  a  peep-show.  There's  not  a  soul  so  old,  or 
so  wearied  out,  as  don't  prick  ears  and  cackle  news, 
be  it  false  or  true,  'bout  newcomers.  And  the  old 
gentleman  always  a-going  about  with  his  camp  stool 
and  his  little  hammers,  and  his  measuring  rods,  'tis 
but  nat'ral  he's  set  up  as  a  wonderment." 

"Shall  I  be  a  wonderment  too,  Merry?" 

"With  that  face,  and  that  hair,  and  the  carriage 
o'  your  body  so  straight  and  limmer,  do  you  ask  it, 
miss?  Of  course  your  gowns  are  a  bit  plain,  but 
there's  more  in  a  gown  than  the  stuff;  there's  the 
way  o'  wearin'  it,  and  that  you've  got.  And  makin' 
so  bold,  shall  I  put  out  a  dress  for  to-night,  being  a 
festival  day,  miss,  and  late  fashionable  dinner?" 

"Do  you  suppose  the  professor  would  notice  what 
I  had  on?" 

"  'Tis  a  shame  to  be  truthful  on  the  point,  but 


48  A   JILT'S   JOTJENAL. 

I've  never  so  much  as  seen  him  give  a  comprehend- 
ing look  to  a  female,  miss." 

"Not  like  the  ancient  Gregory,  Merry?" 

"A  deal  better  in  his  morals,  miss,  though  less 
cheerful  in  his  mind." 

"Well,  put  me  out  my  school-party  frock,  Merry. 
I  wish  you  could  dress  my  hair.  I'd  make  you  my 
maid,  and  Graddy  could  get  somebody  else  for 
housework." 

Merry  shook  her  head  gravely.  "She'd  never 
consent.  She  thinks  a  lot  o'  servants  means  only  a 
lot  o'  work  and  waste.  'Tis  a  weary,  easy  place 
this,  once  the  morning  time  is  over.  I'm  good  at 
plain  sewing,  miss,  and  will  do  all  yours,  but  about 
hair-dressing — that's  something  in  the  extra  way, 
and  would  want  an  art  of  education." 

So  I  did  my  own  hair,  and  put  on  my  white 
frock,  and  fastened  a  bunch  of  holly  berries  at  my 
waist. 

But  whatever  sort  of  picture  I  made,  or  seemed  to 
make,  there  was  no  one  to  notice  or  approve,  for  the 
professor's  eyes  were  turned  inward  as  usual,  and  I 
doubt  if  he  even  knew  there  was  a  plum  pudding  on 
the  table. 

"I  was  up  at  the  castle  to-day,"  I  said,  making  a 
valiant  effort  at  conversation,  which  had  spluttered 
and  died  out  like  damp  wood  newly  kindled,  during 
previous  stages  of  soup  and  roast  beef,  served  and 
carved  by  Graddage. 

He  looked  up  from  his  plate,  where  a  slice  of  plum 
pudding  had  aroused  a  speculative  regard  worthy  of 
an  archaeological  specimen.  "I  hope,"  he  said,  "you 
observed  that  masonry  of  which  I  was  speaking.  It 
is  worthy  of  study." 

"But  I'm  not  writing  a  history  of  ruins,"  I  said. 


A   JILT'S   JOURNAL.  49 

"That,  Paula,  need  not  prevent  you  taking  an 
intelligent  interest  in  the  subject." 

"I  don't  care  about  it  as  a  subject,"  I  said.  "If  I 
were  an  artist  I'd  paint  the  old  castle,  because  it  is 
beautiful  and  picturesque,  but  I  can't  get  up  any 
enthusiasm  over  the  architecture  of  one  era  as  dis- 
tinct from  another." 

His  eyes  regarded  me  now  instead  of  the  pud- 
ding. 

"You  are  very  young,"  he  remarked.  "And  all 
young  female  things  are  indifferent  to  what  lies 
beyond  their  own  immediate  interests." 

To  be  called  "a  young  female  thing!"     Well? 

"I  daresay,"  he  went  on  placidly,  "that  when  you 
have  passed  the  chrysalis  stage  you  will  show  more 
intelligence.  I  can  recommend  you  a  course  of 
study." 

"Thank  you,  professor,"  I  said  with  dignity. 
"But  I've  had  ten  years  of  study,  and  am  a  little 
tired  of  it.  I  should  like  a  change." 

"A  change,"  he  repeated.  His  eyes  went  from 
me  to  his  plate,  from  his  plate  back  to  me. 

I  wondered  whether  he  noticed  that  I  was  wear- 
ing a  white  dress,  and  that  my  eyes  were  laughing  at 
his  perplexity. 

"Yes,"  I  said;  "a  change  from  school  routine, 
and  books  and  classes.  I  am  grown  up,  you  know, 
professor." 

If  anything  so  grave  and  solemn  as  that  face  of 
his  could  be  said  to  smile,  then  the  professor  at- 
tempted this  frivolity.  He  pushed  up  his  glasses 
and  drew  a  wrinkled  hand  over  a  perplexed  brow. 

"Hardly  that,  my  dear,"  he  said.  "Seventeen  is 
your  age,  if  I  remember  right.  Your  father's  in- 
structions were  that  you  should  leave  school  at  that 


50  A   JILT'S   JOURNAL. 

period  of  life,  and  live  under  my  guardianship. 
You  are  entitled  also  to  receive  the  sum  of  one  hun- 
dred pounds  a  year  from  this  date.  I  believe  I 
mentioned  these  facts  in  my  letter." 

"You  may  have  intended  to,  but  I  am  hearing 
them  for  the  first  time." 

"Dear  me,"  he  said,  "dear  me!  It  was  certainly 
written." 

"Perhaps — not  posted.  That  would  account  for 
my  ignorance." 

"So  it  would,  my  dear,  so  it  would.  I  do  forget 
to  have  letters  posted.  Perhaps  I  shall  find  this  on 
my  writing  table." 

He  rose.  "Oh,  don't  go !"  I  entreated.  "You've 
not  finished  your  dinner.  And  it  will  be  such  a  long 
evening  for  me." 

"As  for  my  dinner,"  he  answered,  "I  have  had 
all  I  need.  This  sort  of  indigestible,  though  sea- 
sonable, addition  to  the  meal  is — ah — unimportant." 

"But  do  you  never  take  a  holiday?"  I  urged. 
"This  is  Christmas  Day,  you  know,  and — well, 
everyone  enjoys  themselves,  and  rests,  and  is  as 
merry  as  circumstances  permit.  Why  should  you 
be  different?" 

He  walked  over  to  the  fireplace  and  stood  with 
his  back  to  it,  and  his  hands  thrust  behind  his  long 
coat  tails.  I  pushed  my  plate  aside,  and  during  the 
time  his  silence  afforded  reflection,  I  saw  myself 
playing  the  staff  of  declining  years;  the  gentle  in- 
fluence who  should  win  him  from  too-absorbing 
studies  and  make  of  the  dreary  house  a  home.  Just 
as  his  hair  had  grown  to  yet  more  silvered  scanti- 
ness, and  his  weak  voice  was  blessing  my  filial  devo- 
tion, he  broke  into  speech. 

"I  suppose  I  am- different,"  he  said.    "And  I  have 


A  JILT'S   JOURNAL.  51 

forgotten  what  this  place  must  seem  to  you.  You 
are  —  ah  —  your  mother's  child,  Paula,  as  well  as 
your  father's.  I  should  have  remembered  that." 

"Am  I  like  her  in-  any  way?  Oh,  do  tell  me!"  I 
cried  eagerly.  I  left  the  table  and  came  to  his  side. 
"Please  remember,"  I  went  on,  "that  I'm  not  a  stone 
or  a  specimen,  but  a  flesh  and  blood  creature,  and 
very  ignorant  of  life.  Perhaps  if  I  knew  my 
mother's  it  would  help  me." 

Such  a  change  came  over  the  passionless  face  that 
I  could  only  look  and  wonder.  The  tremor  that 
stirs  a  quiet  pool  into  whose  waters  a  chance  stone 
has  fallen  was  such  a  disturbance  as  wavered  over 
that  wrinkled  visage,  and  stirred  it  from  a  long- 
enforced  composure. 

He  looked  at  me ;  at  the  table,  with  its  scarlet  and 
white  decoration;  at  the  room  and  its  bare  walls; 
then  again  at  me. 

"I  forget  the  years,"  he  said,  "and  how  they  pass, 
and  the  changes  they  bring.  I  forget,  ah — every- 
thing. But  when  you  speak  and  look,  Paula,  she 
comes  back  and  speaks  and  looks  also.  I  have  been 
a  recluse  so  long.  I — I  almost  forget  what  it  ever 
was  to  have  been  young.  For  to-night — Christmas 
night  you  said  it  was,  Paula — I  will  put  aside  my 
work  as  you  —  ah  —  counseled.  You  may,  if  you 
choose,  accompany  me  to  my  study,  and  I  will  try 
and  tell  you  what  you  desire  about  those  parents 
you  lost  so  young,  and  whose  place  I  can  so  ill 
supply." 

His  arms  dropped  loosely  to  his  side.  He  led  the 
way  to  the  door,  and  I  followed. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

WHEN  I  came  up  to  my  room  it  was  ten  o'clock, 
and  I  took  out  my  journal  to  confide  to  its  pages  the 
events  of  the  day.  But  of  that  conversation  in  the 
study  I  could  not  write  freely. 

It  was  my  first  glimpse  into  a  human  heart,  and 
the  heart  had  not  aged  with  years  as  the  face  had 
done.  Time  slipped  back  as  the  professor  told  his 
story,  which  was  my  mother's  story  also,  and 
painted  her  for  me  a  bright,  gifted,  enchanting  crea- 
ture, playing  havoc  with  all  hearts.  She  had  Irish 
blood  in  her  veins,  and  dawned  on  the  life  of  two 
stolid  English  boys  as  a  revelation  of  woman's 
beauty  and  witchery.  They  both  loved  her.  One 
won  her  love.  The  other  never  spoke  of  his. 

That  was  what  I  read  between  the  lines.  No  new 
story,  I  suppose,  but  it  was  new  to  me.  Perhaps  it 
was  the  brief  words,  the  long  pauses,  the  very  sim- 
plicity of  speech  that  made  that  story  so  infinitely 
pathetic.  The  language  of  feeling  is  strong  enough 
to  disdain  eloquence  or  exaggeration.  I  should  like 
to  write  as  the  professor  spoke,  but  I  know  it  would 
be  hopeless  to  attempt  it.  I  made  a  good  listener 
because  I  was  an  intensely  interested  one.  There 
was  no  need  to  act  that  part.  I  felt  it.  A  hopeless 
love,  unspoken  and  unguessed.  A  tragic  death, 
and  then  a  charge  whose  import  and  responsibility 
were  alike  undreamt  of. 

I — the  personality,  evolved  out  of  the  situation. 
My  place — here. 

But  as  I  thought  it  all  over  in  the  solitude  of  my 

52 


A   JILT'S   JOUKNAL.  63 

room  I  felt  dwarfed  into  insignificance.  I  could 
only  see  that  patient  figure  toiling  through  long 
years  for  sake  of  work,  not  the  work's  reward. 

And  I  had  laughed  at  him.  A  ghost  of  patient 
manhood  came  back  from  years  of  cold  lovelessness 
and  seemed  to  reproach  youth's  heedless  judgment. 
Its  sad  eyes  made  my  own  eyes  dim  with  swift, 
repentant  tears. 

Love  again  faced  me  with  a  new  mystery — the 
mystery  of  self-sacrifice  and  unrecompensed  devo- 
tion. Youth,  in  man  and  maid,  had  already  spoken, 
but  this  time  I  heard  the  voice  of  age  telling  the 
same  story — the  story  of  Love.  That  vague  dream 
that  yet  could  take  substance  and  overshadow  a 
whole  life. 

Strange  —  doubly,  trebly  strange.  Could  one 
never  get  away  from  it? 

If  I  am  to  be  quite  true  to  myself  and  my  promise 
in  this  journal,  I  must  hide  nothing  that  comes  into 
my  life,  shapes  or  affects  it. 

But  I  find  myself  wondering  to-night  what  the 
girls  would  say  at  the  picture  of  a  sentimental 
Paula,  brooding  over  the  picture  of  a  shabbily 
dressed,  wrinkled  old  man,  who  has  just  made  a 
heroic  effort  to  adjust  his  life  to  a  new  condition. 
Wondering  still  more  what  they  would  say  if  they 
knew  the  history  my  imagination  had  created  for  me 
out  of  such  scant  materials.  For  I  caught  a  glimpse 
of  myself  wielding  my  mother's  power  over  hearts ; 
hurting,  enchanting,  wounding  or  winning  them. 
Would  one  faithful  love  outweigh  all  the  rest? 
Would  it  be  for  me  a  love  that  I  should  remember 
even  unto  the  end  of  life? 

Staying  when  all  "the  rest  were  gone"  ? 


M  A   JILT'S   JOUKNAL. 

It  was  a  pathetic  thought  to  meet  expectant  girl- 
hood, for  whom  the  rose  should  possess  no  thorn; 
but  I  could  not  have  been  myself  had  I  not  looked 
at  the  subject  from  its  pathetic  as  well  as  its  ex- 
pectant side.  I  had  made  up  my  mind  to  be  strictly 
truthful  to  that  self-conscious  personality  of  Paula. 
Neither  good  nor  bad  of  her  should  escape  my 
handling  and  my  criticism,  though  to  others  would 
fall  the  judgment  of  both. 

I  think,  to-night,  I  felt  impatient  for  the  curtain 
to  rise,  the  play  to  begin.  There  were  not  many 
actors  in  the  performance  as  yet,  and  the  piece  was 
not  at  all  dramatic,  except  in  possibilities.  Friend- 
ship, but  no  enmity — interest,  but  no  passion — sen- 
timent, but  no  love. 

Yet  scope  for  them  all. 

If  only  I  were  not  so  young  and  so  ignorant!  I 
wish  I  could  find  a  female  mentor  to  give  me  some 
hints  or  some  advice.  Walking  by  oneself  is  pleas- 
ant enough  sometimes,  but  if  you  are  walking  in  a 
strange  country  and  don't  know  the  way,  or  how  to 
read  the  sign-posts,  you  may  find  yourself  in  an 
undesirable  situation. 

Ah !  .  .  .  I  hear  Merry's  step.  She  is  com- 
ing up  to  brush  my  hair.  So  good-by  to  my  journal 

for  to-night. 

****** 

I  awoke  to  a  cold,  crisp  December  morning,  with 
sunshine  streaming  on  leaf  and  berry  of  the  glisten- 
ing holly  trees  outside  my  window.  Woke — fresh, 
brisk,  alert,  as  is  youth's  happy  privilege. 

On  the  breakfast  table  I  found  a  card  and  brief 
scrawl  from  Lesley.  It  held  an  inquiry  as  to  rriy- 
•self  and  my  doings.  Claire  was  staying  with  her 
till  the  New  Year,  then  she  was  to  leave  for  Paris. 


A   JILT'S   JOURNAL.  55 

"I  suppose  you  are  very  lonely,"  she  concluded. 
"Unless  you  are  living  in  imagination,  and  making 
stories  out  of  commonplace  things,  as  you  can  do. 
Remember  you  have  promised  to  tell  me  everything. 
Have  you  managed  to  wake  up  the  professor  yet?" 

My  glance  fell  on  my  guardian,  who  had  received 
some  scientific  pamphlet  by  the  same  post  and  was 
turning  over  its  pages. 

I  laid  down  my  letter.  "Your  tea  is  getting 
cold,"  I  observed.  "Shall  I  pour  you  out  another 
cup — hot?" 

"Thank  you,  my  dear,  if  you  will,"  he  said.  "I 
have  had  my  meals  alone  so  long  that  I  forget  you 
are  here." 

I  took  the  cup  and  threw  away  its  chilled  contents 
and  handed  it  back  replenished.  "Are  you  going 
out  this  morning?"  I  then  asked.  "It  will  be  lovely 
up  on  the  castle  heights  in  this  bright  sunshine." 

He  shook  his  head.  "I  have  some  work  to  do.  I 
fear  I  cannot  spare  the  time." 

"You  seem  to  be  always  working,"  I  said.  "Are 
you  writing  another  book  ?" 

"Yes,  my  dear." 

"Isn't  it  tiresome  writing  so  much?" 

"It  is  my  life — now.  I  have  to  give  the  world 
the  fruit  of  my  discoveries.  It  is  expected  of  me." 

"That's  what's  meant  by  making  a  name,  isn't 
it?"  I  inquired. 

"I  suppose  so,"  he  said. 

"By  the  way!"  I  exclaimed,  "didn't  my  mother 
write  books?  You  told  me  so  once.  Have  you 
any  of  hers?  I  should  love  to  read  them." 

His  lips  twitched  nervously.  "She  wrote — ah! 
yes.  One  book  was  published.  I  have  it  my  book- 
case." 


56  A   JILT'S    JOURNAL. 

"Only  one!"  I  echoed  disappointedly.  "That 
seems  very  little.  What  is  the  name  of  it  ?" 

"Fenella's  Confessions,"  he  answered. 

"What  a  funny  title!     Who  was  Fenella?" 

"I  think  she  is  meant  for  the  heroine.  But  you 
can  read  it  for  yourself.  If  you  will  come  to  the 
study  presently  I  will — ah — show  it  to  you." 

My  curiosity  was  aroused. 

"Did  you  ever  read  it,  professor? — or  was  it  too 
frivolous?" 

"I — yes,  I  read  it,  although  novel-reading  is  not 
a  habit  of  mine.  But  she  asked  me  to  do  so." 

When  I  held  the  book  in  my  hands  shortly  after- 
ward, and  turned  over  the  pages  with  reverent 
fingers,  I  saw  that  many  passages  were  marked  with 
pencil  lines,  that  here  and  there  a  word  was  blistered 
almost  out  of  recognition.  I  thought  of  his  simple 
words — "She  asked  me  to  read  it." 

The  obedience  had  cost  something,  if  only  a 
heartache  at  the  quickening  of  memory. 

"May  I  take  it  away  and  read  it,  professor?"  I 
asked. 

"Yes,  my  dear.  It  is  only  right  you  should 
know  her  through  her  writing.  But — be  very  care- 
ful of  that  volume,  Paula.  It  is  all  I  have  of  hers; 
and  she  gave  it  to  me." 

I  promised,  and  then  left  the  room,  carrying  with 
me  once  more  the  picture  of  a  patient  face  bent  over 
piles  of  paper — a  stooping  figure  on  which  Time's 
hand  had  laid  a  heavy  burden,  uncomplainingly 
borne. 

But  the  sunshine  was  to  me  an  invitation  from 
the  outer  world.  I  put  on  my  hat  and  jacket,  and 
with  the  book  in  my  hand  went  out  to  it.  As  usual 
my  steps  turned  toward  the  castle  hill.  I  found  a 


A  JILT'S   JOURNAL.  57 

sheltered  spot,  and  sat  down  on  one  of  the  fallen 
bits  of  masonry,  and  then  I  opened  the  dull  brown 
cover.  I  looked  at  the  title-page  and  the  name  of 
the  author.  Suddenly  a  great  wave  of  sadness 
swept  over  me,  and  I  felt  the  tears  rush  to  my  eyes. 
For  I  thought  of  the  hand  that  had  penned  those 
words,  and  of  the  brain  that  had  spoken  in  these 
pages,  and  remembered  that  life  was  quenched  in 
both. 

Only  a  great  silence  had  represented  her  to  me 
until  I  held  this  volume  and  began  to  make  ac- 
quaintance with  her  through  its  printed  pages.  I 
read  them  as  no  one  else  could  read  them ;  as  inter- 
preters of  the  dead.  The  only  thing  that  could 
speak  to  me  of  all  that  one  word  "motherhood" 
meant.  I  read  the  story  uncritically,  for  how  could 
I  question  power  or  plot,  style  or  diction,  when 
my  throbbing  heart  sought  only  that  hint  of  self- 
revelation  which  should  make  me  cry  out,  "I  know 
you"? 

Then  presently  I  forgot  the  story.  It  was  tragic, 
but  it  was  not  hers.  I  sought  through  the  pages 
for  all  the  marked  passages.  He  had  known  her, 
he  would  have  understood  what  they  spoke  of  her- 
self, and  to  them  I  applied  for  interpretation. 

I  copy  a  few  here,  for  reference,  as  I  had  prom- 
ised to  return  the  book. 

"One  love  in  a  life.  How  poverty-stricken  you 
would  make  it!  I  have  loved  three  men — in  dif- 
ferent ways.  Now  I  begin  to  think  I  loved  none, 
for  a  fourth  appears  on  the  scene,  making  up  in 
himself  what  the  others  lacked,  each  in  one  par- 
ticular." 


58  A   JILT'S   JOURNAL. 

"What  an  awful  barrier  sentiment  can  be !" 

"It's  not  what  you  give,  but  what  you  refrain 
from  giving,  that  holds  a  man  your  slave.  His  love 
can  outlive  benefits,  but  not — expectation." 

"When  you  have  conquered  the  illusions  of  Love, 
the  falling  away  of  the  personality  they  clothed 
cannot  hurt  you.  It  is  only  a  confirmation  of  your 
wiser  judgment.  Be  thankful  for  that,  not  re- 
gretful." 

"Say  to  youth — 'Test  and  try  before  you  buy,' 
and  it  will  still  make  its  purchases  blindfold." 

"Do  you  thank  Fate  that  you  are  a  beautiful 
woman?  Rather  should  you  curse  it.  To  be  be- 
loved of  many  is  no  enviable  lot !  Coquette  desig- 
nates your  pathway  of  conquest.  A  smile  is  en- 
couragement. A  chance  meeting  a  trap.  A 
granted  request  makes  of  triviality  a  binding  agree- 
ment. Every  declaration  of  passion  proclaims  you 
heartless.  Could  I — dared  I — write  my  life  as  it 
has  been,  I  should  call  it  A  Jilt's  Journal,  to  please 
my  disappointed  lovers.  And — The  Confessions  of 
a  Fool,  to  please  myself." 

I  stopped  reading  abruptly  and  closed  the  book. 
Were  these  my  mother's  thoughts,  her  experiences, 
or  had  she  only  put  them  into  the  mouth  of  her 
heroine?  It  was  always  a  woman  who  spoke  them, 
and  they  had  a  cynical  flavor  that  seemed  to  say  she 
was  no  happy  or  innocent  one.  I  went  over  the 
professor's  story.  I  dwelt  on  his  picture  of  her 
beauty  and  allurements.  "She  was  loved  wherever 


A   JILT'S   JOURNAL.  59 

she  went.  It  seemed  her  prerogative.  No  man 
could  resist  her." 

That  was  what  he  had  said.  And  here,  in  her 
book,  a  similar  confession  met  me.  Its  opening  sen- 
tence ran  thus :  "Fenella's  fate  was  to  be  loved,  and 
love  was  her  life's  ban  and  blessing.  She  could  only 
make  one  lover  happy,  but  a  hundred  believed  each 
individual  unit  meant  that  one.  Thus  on  the 
threshold  of  life  she  was  an  education  in  the  art  of 
disappointment." 

A  hundred  lovers — and  only  one  could  mean  any- 
thing to  oneself  were  one  ever  so  gifted,  or  ever  so 
beautiful.  How  I  wished  I  knew  if  she  had  penned 
those  lines  from  personal  experience. 

They  set  me  thinking  and  wondering.  They 
opened  out  a  new  vista  of  life.  All  her  beauty  and 
the  love  she  had  won  did  not  appear  to  have  made 
this  heroine  happy.  The  last  page  was  the  sigh  of 
a  broken  heart,  a  prayer  for  death.  Could  one  pic- 
ture imaginary  unhappiness  with  such  graphic 
force  ?  Must  it  not  be  felt  ere  it  could  be  expressed  ? 

I  knew  that  I  myself  could  not  present  it  as  a 
reality,  however  hard  I  might  try,  because  to  me  it 
was  an  unknown  thing.  Little  griefs,  trivial  sor- 
rows, these  I  had  of  course  experienced,  but  not 
anything  of  the  vague  discontent,  the  passionate 
misery  that  breathed  in  those  pages. 

They  gave  me  food  enough  for  thought,  and  I 
never  noticed  how  the  time  was  slipping  on. 

Into  my  warm  nook  the  sun  still  streamed.  The 
austere  outlines  of  surrounding  hills  leaned  against 
the  soft  blue  of  a  sky  that  seemed  to  stoop  toward 
them.  Far  away  to  the  west  an  old  coach  road 
wound  its  way,  like  a  resolute  thought  determined 
on  a  distant  goal.  Rooks  cawed  in  leafless  elms 


60  A   JILT'S   JOURNAL. 

that  towered  around  the  old  gray  church.  The  cur- 
rent of  life  stirred  in  the  sleepy  old  town.  It  was  a 
holiday,  and  the  solitary  inn  had  awakened  to  re- 
sponsibilities— and  profits. 

I  became  conscious  of  all  this  in  some  dreamy 
fashion  that  mingled  with  the  book  and  its  story  and 
my  own  thoughts.  Gradually,  through  the  dreami- 
ness, a  sense  of  things  relative  to  the  outer  world 
began  to  mingle.  A  chatter  and  laughter  that  her- 
alded the  approach  of  something  unconcerned  with 
dreams. 

I  stirred  cautiously  in  my  concealing  nook,  and 
looked  around. 

A  party  of  men  and  women  stood  on  the  slope 
below.  From  them  came  the  chatter  and  laughter 
that  so  ill  accorded  with  the  quiet  of  this  old  historic 
place. 

I  leant  forward,  wondering  who  they  were; 
quickly  conscious  of  the  intrusion  of  worldliness, 
curiosity  and  frivolity  among  the  sacred  things  of 
life. 

One  woman's  face,  uplifted  in  its  audacity  of 
beauty  and  comment,  caught  my  glance.  I  knew  it 
at  once.  She  was  the  woman  I  had  remarked  in 
church  on  Christmas  Day. 

As  I  looked  down  she  saw  me,  and  pointed  me 
out  to  the  group  of  which  she  seemed  the  leader  and 
guide.  Other  heads  turned  in  my  direction,  and  I 
drew  back. 

Presently  I  heard  a  voice  behind  me — a  woman's 
voice. 

"Can  you  tell  me,"  it  said,  "which  of  these  towers 
is  the  Butavant?  No  one  seems  to  know,  and  this 
appears  to  be  that  rara  avis,  an  historical  ruin  with- 
out an  historical  guide  attached  to  it." 


FA   JILT'S   JOURNAL.  61 

I  half  rose  and  turned  in  the  direction  of  the 
speaker.  The  lovely,  impertinent  face,  the  inde- 
scribable air  of  distinction  and  luxury  and  perfec- 
tion of  clothing,  held  me  dumb  with  wondering  ad- 
miration. 

I  pointed  to  the  dungeon  tower  and  narrow  gang- 
way. "That  is  the  place,"  I  said.  "But  the  stairs 
are  very  narrow,  and  you  want  strong  nerves  to 
climb  them." 

"Oh,  then  I'll  send  Bobby,"  she  said  coolly,  and 
turning,  made  a  speaking  trumpet  of  her  hand,  and 
shouted  something  to  someone  below  our  level. 
Then  she  turned  to  me.  "He's  my  husband,"  she 
said,  "and  has  no  nerves  to  speak  of.  It  will  do  him 
good." 

I  suppose  I  stared.  She  was  the  revelation  of  a 
type  of  womanhood  as  yet  unknown.  The  woman 
of  the  world.  Such  a  woman  as  breathed  in  the 
pages  of  Friendship — audacious,  insolent,  self-pos- 
sessed, and,  to  an  ignoramus  like  myself,  inexpres- 
sibly fascinating.  She  made  me  feel  commonplace, 
almost  boorish.  Her  eyes,  of  that  curious  turquoise 
blue,  so  cold  and  yet  so  lovely,  roved  from  my  face 
to  my  dress,  rested  on  the  book  I  held,  swept  up- 
ward to  the  ruins,  downward  to  the  gray-roofed 
town,  then  back  to  my  face  again  in  a  space  of 
seconds. 

"Do  you  live  here?"  she  asked  sweetly.  "I 
think  I  remember  your  face;  I  saw  you  in  church." 

I  felt  flattered.  "I  have  not  lived  here — yet,"  I 
said.  "But  I  am  to  do  so." 

"Poor  child !"  she  said  with  mocking  compassion. 
"What  a  life !  Buried  alive  expresses  it.  Is  there 
a  must  in  the  background  in  the  shape  of  an  un- 
natural parent  ?" 


62  A   JILT'S   JOURNAL. 

I  felt  myself  color.  "I  am  to  live  with  my  uncle. 
But  he  is  not  unnatural.  He  is  making  archaeologi- 
cal researches  respecting  these  old  ruins.  Perhaps 
you  have  heard  of  him — Professor  Trent?" 

Her  laugh  chimed  so  sweetly  on  the  still,  crisp 
air  that  I  hardly  noted  its  heartlessness.  "My  dear 
child,  do  I  look  as  if  I  knew  anything  of  any  'ology 
whatever,  or  any  professor  of  it  ?  But  I  have  heard 
the  St.  Quintons,  where  I'm  staying,  speak  of  your 
uncle.  He  is  very  learned,  and  very  clever,  and 
quite  a  recluse,  they  say.  Does  he  destine  you  for  a 
similar  existence?  If  so,  I  should  counsel  rebellion." 

We  were  both  standing  now.  Though  taller  than 
herself,  I  envied  a  grace  of  carriage,  which  I  felt 
was  inimitable. 

"He  does  go  to  London  sometimes,"  I  said. 

Again  she  laughed.  "You  mean  to  say  you  will 
go  also.  That  promises  entertainment!  Lectures 
and  soirees  of  the  Royal  Archaeological  and  Geo- 
graphical and  Astronomical,  and  all  the  other  soci- 
eties !  How  old  are  you  ?" 

"Seventeen." 

Again  her  eyes  swept  me  from  crown  of  head  to 
tip  of  toe. 

"All  life  before  you,"  she  said  suddenly.  "And 
that  face  —  and  buried  alive  beneath  musty  ruins, 
and  dug-up  fossils,  and  ponderous,  dry-as-dust  pro- 
fessors. Poor  child !" 

"It  is  very  kind  of  you  to  pity  me,"  I  said,  with  a 
sudden  show  of  spirit,  "but  there  may  be  very  good 
things  to  be  got  out  of  the  life." 

"That's  for  you  to  say,  of  course.  My  advice 
would  be — 'get  out  of  it  yourself.'  Discontent  is 
fortune's  first  favor.  If  we  did  not  long  to  fly  we 
should  never  learn  to  walk." 


A   JILT'S   JOUENAL.  63 

Perhaps  I  looked  perplexed.  Such  metaphor  was 
a  little  beyond  the  average  schoolgirl's  knowledge 
of  life  and  manners. 

"Why,"  she  went  on  suddenly,  "I  was  married  at 
your  age.  Like  you,  I  had  just  left  school  when  1 
met  Bobby." 

Then  another  peal  of  laughter  escaped  her  lovely 
lips.  "Look !"  she  cried,  and  pointed  to  the  broken 
and  unsafe  stairway,  up  which  a  short,  fat  and  emi- 
nently ungraceful  figure  was  making  its  way,  jeered 
and  urged  on  by  the  crowd  below. 

"That's  Bobby,"  she  said,  laughing  more  than 
ever.  "Would  you  think  he  was  a  peer  of  the 
realm,  and  'Earl  of  broad  acres/  as  the  story  books 
say?  He  is,  though,  and  has  the  honor  to  be  my 
legal  possessor.  What  do  you  think  of  him? 
Don't  birth  and  breeding  and  aristocratic  lineage 
speak  out  in  those  fat  limbs,  that  unwieldy  figure? 
But  you  should  hear  him  talk !  Why,  a  stableman 
could  give  him  points  in  grammar.  Funny,  isn't  it, 
that  Eton  and  Oxford  can't  turn  out  better  things 
than  a  Board  school  ?" 

I  felt  more  bewildered  than  ever.  That  a  lady,  a 
titled  lady,  one  wedded  to  a  peer  of  the  realm, 
should  talk  of  her  affairs  to  an  utter  stranger  in  this 
frank  manner  was  more  than  a  surprise. 

"How  astonished  you  look,"  she  went  on.  "It 
must  be  funny  to  find  anything  in  life  to  astonish 
one.  I  wish  I  could.  The  nearest  approach  to  it 
I've  had  for  years  is  to  see  Bobby  climbing  up  that 
old  stairway,  with  the  grace  of  a  monkey  on  a  stick. 
I  hope  he  won't  tumble  down  and  break  his  neck. 
I  want  to  be  Duchess  of  Dorchester  before  I  die,  so 
I'm  very  careful  of  him." 

"You  sent  him  up  there !"  I  said. 


64  A  JILT'S  JOURNAL. 

"Yes.     I  didn't  think  it  was  so  risky." 

Again  she  called  out:  "Come  down,  Bobby;  come 
down !  You'll  break  your  neck !" 

I  saw  the  figure  halt,  turn  awkwardly  round,  and 
then  commence  to  scramble  backward  amidst  the 
shouts  and  screams  of  his  friends  below. 

"You  see  how  obedient  he  is,"  she  observed, 
turning  again  to  me.  "And  I  married  him  when  I 
was  only  as  old  as  yourself,  and  no  one  could  do 
anything  with  him  before!  That  fact  has  ranked 
me  as  one  of  the  cleverest  women  in  London.  I've 
run  him  like  a  show,  and  he's  not  been  such  a  bad 
investment." 

A  feeling  of  disgust  swept  over  me.  To  look  at 
this  lovely  face,  this  radiant  figure,  and  then  hear 
such  words! 

It  reminded  me  of  the  princess  out  of  whose 
mouth  the  frogs  leaped  whenever  she  spoke. 

Words  like  those  I  had  heard  seemed  to  clothe 
thoughts  as  unlovely  as  the  frogs,  and  as  repelling 
in  their  cold  heartlessness. 

"You  haven't  much  to  say  for  yourself,"  she  said 
suddenly.  "Suppose  I  told  you  I  had  taken  an  in- 
terest in  you?" 

"I  really  don't  know  why  you  should,"  I  an- 
swered. 

"Perhaps  because  you  don't  like  me,  and  that's  a 
thing  I  never  permit.  They  call  me  Lorely  in  Lon- 
don, because — but  if  you  ever  go  there  you'll  hear 
my  history,  or  I  shall  see  you.  Will  you  make  a 
bet  on  it?" 

I  shook  my  head.  "Why  should  we — bet?  If 
it  is  to  be,  it  will  be.  That's  enough." 

"Kismet,  you  mean?  Will  you  come  down  and 
be  introduced  to  those  people?  The  St.  Quintans 


A   JILTS   JOUKNAL.  65 

know  your  uncle.  They  were  speaking  about  him 
to-day  while  we  drove  here.  Come  back  with  us  to 
lunch." 

She  gave  the  invitation  as  if  the  Court  and  all 
belonging  to  it  were  at  her  service.  I  felt  more 
puzzled  than  ever  at  the  ways  of  society. 

"I  will  come  down,"  I  said,  "because  I  should  like 
to  know  Lord  St.  Quinton.  I  have  heard  so  much 
about  him." 

"Oh !  Darky's  not  a  bad  old  thing,"  she  said  care- 
lessly. "We  all  call  him  that,"  she  added,  seeing 
my  look  of  surprise.  "Darchdale  is  too  formal, 
you  know,  so  it  got  to  Darch,  and  then  Darky.  It's 
the  way  to  nickname  everyone  now.  The  smartest 
idea  is  to  find  a  name  so  appropriate  that  it  explains 
the  person.  My  dear,  what  a  lot  you  have  to 
learn!" 

"Of  the  world  and  society?  I  suppose  so.  I 
wonder " 

Then  I  stopped  abruptly. 

"What,  or  how  much?"  she  asked  quickly. 

"Of  course  I  know  there  are  different  grades — 
sets.  I  was  only  going  to  say  I  wonder  if  you  know 
anyone  in  London  of  the  name  of  Heath?" 

"Heath — the  Archie  Heaths?  Lady  Archie  is  a 
great  pal  of  mine.  Do  you  mean  them  ?  They  live 
in  Stanhope  Street." 

"Yes,"  I  said,  "that  is  my  friend's  address.  So 
you  know  her  mother  ?" 

"Step-mother,"  she  corrected.  "Lady  Archie  is 
"the  second  wife." 

"Yes,  of  course.  But  Lesley  always  called  her 
mother." 

"She  told  me  she  had  a  daughter  to  introduce 
next  season,"  continued  my  new  acquaintance. 


66  A   JILT'S    JOURNAL. 

"Odd  that  she  should  be  a  school  friend  of  yours. 
I  knew  she  was  at  a  school  in  the  country  for  her 
health.  Well,  our  destinies  seem  converging,  Miss 
—Trent,  isn't  it  ?" 

'That,"  I  said,  "is  my  name." 

"And  here's  Darky  and  the  rest  of  them.     Let  me 
introduce  you  as  my  new  discovery  —  my  archaeo- 
logical discovery.     By  the  way,  what's  your  Chris 
tian  name?" 

"Paula " 

"Paula!  How  lovely!  It  quite  redeems  the 
commonplace  Trent.  I  shall  call  you  that.  It's  the 
privilege  of  my  superior  years.  I  came  of  age  a 
year  ago !" 


CHAPTER  VII. 

WHAT  a  luncheon  party  that  was ! 

Talk  of  a  baptism  of  fire  for  a  man,  it  is  nothing  I 
should  say  to  the  baptism  of  disillusion  women  offer 
to  their  sex,  by  way  of  preparing  them  for  social 
warfare. 

To  the  people  who  surrounded  me  nothing 
seemed  sacred,  or  pure,  or  worthy  of  respect. 
Nothing  serious  except  dress  and  baccarat.  I  felt 
as  ignorant  and  as  "out  of"  every  subject  of  discus- 
sion as  of  the  mode  of  discussing  it.  I  listened 
eagerly  enough,  because  the  Fruit  of  the  Tree  of 
Knowledge  seemed  so  tempting,  but  I  could  feel  the 
color  come  and  go  at  the  half-mocking  compliments 
and  comments  on  myself,  and  I  was  conscious  of 
alternate  shame  and  anger  at  my  ignorance. 

The  ball  of  frivolous  chatter,  tossed  so  lightly  and 
so  rapidly  by  these  practiced  hands,  took  a  hundred 
prismatic  colors  in  its  flight.  I  wondered  how  they 
had  words  at  command  for  that  incessant  sport  of 
repartee,  cynicism,  or  epigram.  Yet  it  was  all  very 
heartless.  A  shower  of  rockets  whose  sparks 
warmed  nothing  they  touched,  only  left  a  brilliant 
track  in  the  air  ere  darkness  caught  them. 

They  filled  me  with  wonder,  these  people  to 
whom  the  great  world  was  a  playground — its  great 
names  puppets  of  their  show.  As  for  Lord  Brance- 
peth,  whom  everyone  called  "Bobby,"  he  was  to  me 
the  greatest  surprise  of  all.  Certainly  if  I  had  not 

67 


68  A   JILT'S   JOURNAL. 

been  told  he  was  an  earl  I  should  never  have  mis- 
taken him  for  a  gentleman.  His  talk  was  all  of 
horses,  and  studs,  and  jockeys.  It  was  vulgar  and 
slangy,  as  well  as  ungrammatical.  His  wife  made 
open  sport  of  him  to  his  face,  and  when  I  looked  at 
her,  so  lovely,  so  young,  so  full  of  that  supreme  dis- 
tinction which  has  no  name,  I  marveled  what  on 
earth  could  have  induced  her  to  marry  such  a  boor ! 

"Have  we  shocked  you  very  much,  Paula?"  she 
asked  me,  when  luncheon  was  at  last  over,  and  the 
party  were  sitting,  lounging,  or  smoking  in  the  hall. 

I  was  longing  to  get  away  and  to  get  home.  I 
felt  so  completely  out  of  my  element  here.  Their 
language  was  a  shibboleth,  their  laughter  a  scream, 
their  jests  things  of  double  meaning — to  me  incom- 
prehensible. 

"Shocked  me — I  don't  know,"  I  said  doubtfully. 
"It  is  very  hard  to  make  out  what  you  all  mean. 
You  talk  so  fast,  and  you  never  seem  to  give  any- 
thing its  right  name,  or  any  person." 

"Poor  little  country  mouse!"  she  mocked.  "If 
Lesley  Heath  is  anything  like  you,  Archie  will  have 
her  hands  full!" 

"She  is  not  at  all  like  me,"  I  said.  "She  is  very 
beautiful  and  very  accomplished." 

"Could  you  see  all  that  in  another  girl  and  not  be 
jealous?"  she  asked,  taking  a  match  out  of  the  tiny 
gold  box  which  hung  at  her  chatelaine,  and  pro- 
ceeding to  light  a  cigarette. 

I  watched  the  process  in  unbounded  amazement. 

"You — smoke?"  I  gasped. 

"Certainly.  Why  not?  Did  you  never  see  a 
woman  smoke  before  ?" 

"Never!" 

She  burst  into  a  laugh  that  Nature  had  modu- 


lated  beyond  the  power  of  fashion  to  mar.  "You 
are  quite  too  delicious !"  she  exclaimed. 

Then  she  turned  round  to  another  fashionable 
exotic  lounging  on  a  great  cushioned  divan  near  the 
open  fireplace. 

"My  dear  Larks,"  she  said,  "look  at  this  piece  of 
simplicity!  Fancy,  she  has  never  seen  a  woman 
smoke  till  to-day !" 

Several  pairs  of  eyes  turned  on  me,  and  I  colored 
hotly  beneath  their  fire  and  impertinence.  I  wished 
I  could  have  left  my  seat  and  got  away,  but  I 
seemed  glued  to  it. 

"Make  her  try  a  whiff  herself,"  answered  the 
lady  addressed.  "She's  not  half  a  schoolgirl  if  she 
says  'no'  to  the  chance." 

"Thank  you,  I'd  rather  not,"  I  exclaimed  quickly. 
"I  don't  mind  seeing  men  smoke,  but  I  think  it's 
horrid  for  a  woman !" 

An  amazed  stare  met  me,  followed  by  a  burst  of 
scornful  laughter. 

"A  female  Daniel  come  to  judgment !"  murmured 
the  lady  whom  I  had  already  heard  addressed  as 
"Larks"  and  "Lady-bird,"  but  whose  rightful  desig- 
nation was  Lady  Larkington. 

"She's  quite  right,  though,"  said  a  tall,  military- 
looking  man,  who  was  hanging  over  the  speaker's 
chair.  "It's  horrid,  beastly  horrid.  Spoils  your 
teeth,  your  breath,  your  nerves,  your  clothes.  Beats 
me  why  you  do  it.  You  can't  enjoy  it,  for  you 
nearly  all  do  it  in  the  wrong  way.  If  it  wasn't  the 
thing  to  copy  us,  you'd  pitch  Turkish  and  Egyp- 
tians to  the  wind,  and  your  silver  cases  and  match 
boxes  after  them." 

"Hear  the  oracle!"  exclaimed  Lady  Brancepeth. 
"I  begin  to  think  innocence  is  catching." 


70  A   JILT'S   JOURNAL. 

"Hardly,"  he  said.  "When  you're  by  to  disin- 
fect us." 

"That's  beastly  •  rude,"  she  said  coolly.  "And 
very  stupid,  for  no  one  nowadays  could  put  up  with 
such  a  primitive  virtue !  You,  Jim,  least  of  all." 

"Innocence,"  observed  Lady  Larkington,  "is  the 
one  thing  men  pretend  to  admire,  and  hate  to 
possess !" 

"As  if  they  ever  did  possess  it.  If  they  do  it 
never  outlasts  their  first  suit  of  knickerbockers." 

"If  it  comes  to  that,"  chimed  in  Bobby,  "well, 
damme,  a  girl's  don't  seem  to  last  longer  than  hers. 
She  wears  'em  too." 

The  usual  scream  greeted  this  witticism. 

"Oh — I  think  it  goes  as  far  as  the  church  door — 
in  appearance,"  said  Lady  Brancepeth. 

"That  means  the  marriage  service  gives  it  the 
coup  de  grace" 

"Well,  you  could  hardly  expect  innocence  to  out- 
live that,  even  if  read  by  an  archbishop." 

"Why  do  women  believe  in  nothing  that  seems 
good  ?"  asked  the  man  whom  they  called  Jim. 

"Because  it  only  seems  good,  I  suppose.  Women 
know  each  other.  Men  only  know  what  women 
choose  to  let  them  know  of — women." 

"Deuced  lot  of  wickedness  if  they're  to  be  be- 
lieved." 

"Wickedness  is  the  salt  of  life.  It's  capable  of 
such  endless  variations !"  said  Lady  Brancepeth. 

"And  do  you  think  smoking  a  sign  of  lost  inno- 
cence. Jim?"  asked  Lady  Larkington. 

"Oh,  no!  I've  known  some  quite  good  women 
smoke,  because  they  couldn't  afford  to  be  singular. 
We  get  so  very  exclusive  in  these  days  of  Radical 
newspapers." 


A   JILT'S   JOURNAL.  71 

"Good  women!"  murmured  Lady  Brancepeth. 
"There's  quite  a  country  farmhouse  flavor  about  the 
sound.  A  good  woman  is  the  sort  of  female  that  a 
man  always  speaks  of  as  'my  friend,  Mrs.  So  and 
So,'  and  always  makes  use  of,  like  charity,  to  hide  a 
multitude  of  sins." 

"His  own — or  someone  else's?" 

"Either,  poor  souls !  when  there's  any  whitewash- 
ing to  be  done." 

Now  what  on  earth  good  women  could  have  to  do 
with  whitewashing  puzzled  me.  In  the  first  place, 
it  wasn't  a  woman's  work.  In  the  next,  the  char- 
acter of  the  person  employed  to  do  it  wouldn't  affect 
that  work. 

"So  safe  too — if  men  only  married  what  was  best 
for  them,"  murmured  another  voice. 

"There  is  a  spirit  of  contradiction  in  marriage 
which  only  comes  out  after  the  ceremony.  We 
never  do  what  men  expect,  nor  they  what  we 
desire." 

"I  wonder  we  marry  you  at  all,"  observed  Bobby. 

"You  wouldn't  if  you  could  help  it,  I'm  very  sure. 
But  every  man  expects  his  dip  into  the  lottery  will 
bring  him  a  prize.  Women  are  less  hopeful,  and 
take  disappointment  as  their  portion." 

"They  know  there  are  no  prizes,  perhaps,"  said 
Lady  Brancepeth. 

Her  eyes  rested  on  her  "lottery  ticket,"  and  mine 
followed  them.  Bobby's  fat,  awkward  figure  was 
squatting  on  a  chair,  his  legs  straddled  either  side  of 
it,  as  if  it  were  a  horse.  His  arms  rested  on  the 
back  and  he  had  a  huge  cigar  in  his  mouth.  Any- 
thing more  uncouth  or  unlovely  it  would  be  difficult 
to  imagine.  Again  I  thought  of  this  dainty,  ex- 
quisite creature  mated  with  such  a  common,  brain- 


72  A   JILTS   JOURNAL. 

less  boor,  and  a  sort  of  disgust  swept  over  me.  I 
moved  restlessly  in  my  seat,  and  she  turned. 

"You  look  tired,"  she  said.  "I  suppose  you're 
bored  to  death.  Would  you  like  to  go  home?  Are 
you  pining  for  fossils  and  mussels? — is  it  mussels 
they  pick  up  and  specify?  or  do  they  belong  to  an- 
other 'ology?  Well,  I'll  ask  Darky  to  send  you  back 
in  one  of  his  traps,  or  a  bike,  if  you  prefer." 

"I'll  drive  you  home,  if  you'll  allow  me,"  said  the 
military  man,  of  whose  name  I  was  still  ignorant. 

Lady  Brancepeth's  blue  eyes  flashed  angrily. 

"Nonsense,"  she  said.  "There  are  heaps  of 
grooms  and  coachmen.  And  I  want  you,  Jim,  for  a 
Badminton  set  in  the  covered  court.  A  little  exer- 
cise will  do  you  good — you're  getting  stout." 

Yet  when  I  had  stiffly  and  uncomfortably  gone 
through  the  ordeal  of  adieux,  and  got  myself  out  of 
that  strange  atmosphere  into  the  cool,  damp  outer 
air,  it  was  no  groom  who  sprang  up  beside  me  in 
the  dogcart,  but  the  same  "Jim"  who  had  declared 
he  agreed  with  my  opinion  as  to  women  smok- 
ing. 

"I'm  going  to  drive  you  home,"  he  said,  "if  you'll 
allow  me  the  pleasure?" 

I  began  to  feel  of  great  importance.  A  man  of 
the  world,  of  fashion,  so  good-looking '  too,  and 
forsaking  these  beautiful  witty  women  to  drive  me, 
a  mere  schoolgirl. 

"It  is  very  kind  of  you,"  I  said.  "But  I  thought 
you  were  wanted  for  Badminton?" 

"They'll  have  to  do  without  me,"  he  said,  taking 
the  reins.  "Plenty  to  take  my  place.  Fond  of  driv- 
ing?" 

"I  love  it,"  I  said.  "But  I'm  afraid  I  love  a  great 
many  things  I  have  to  do  without." 


A   JILT'S   JOURNAL.  73 

"You're  young  enough,"  he  said,  "to  wait  for 
them.  They're  pretty  sure  to  come." 

Not  sharing  his  confidence  in  the  future,  I  ven- 
tured to  ask  a  reason  for  it. 

He  gave  me  a  quick  glance.  "You  must  be  an 
awful  little  innocent,"  he  said,  "not  to  know  how 
pretty  you  are,  and  a  pretty  woman  is  a  social 
power,  you  know.  She  can  get  most  anything  she 
wants." 

I  felt  a  sudden  increase  of  color  in  my  cheeks, 
and  remained  silent  for  a  moment. 

"Will  you  tell  me,"  I  said  presently,  "why  those 
people  talked  as  they  did?  I  don't  suppose  they 
really  meant  half  the  horrid  things  they  said." 

"Oh,  yes,  they  did,  some  of  them.  Lorely,  for 
instance — she  has  the  bitterest  tongue  of  the  lot. 
Goodness  knows  why!  She  made  her  own  choice, 
but  she  girds  at  it  and  the  man  as  if  she  were  the 
injured  party." 

"When  I  looked  at  her,"  I  said  eagerly,  "such  a 
dream  of  loveliness — and  then  at  Lord " 

"Oh,  don't  give  him  his  title,  pray!  No  one  ever 
does.  Yes,  she's  played  rather  low  down,  taking 
that  stable-yard  cad !" 

"But  you  said " 

"I  know.  I  said  he  was  her  own  choice.  I  sup- 
pose she  thought  he'd  have  his  uses.  You  see,  in 
the  world  we've  left  behind  us  there  are  queer  mo- 
tives for  marrying.  Some  do  it  for — wealth ;  some 
for  convenience;  some  for — safety." 

"Safety?"  I  echoed. 

He  laughed.  "There  are  husbands,"  he  said,  who 
put  on  the  curb,  and  others  who  drive  with  a  loose 
rein,  and  yet  others  who  never  look  into  the  stable 
yard  at  all.  But  there,  child,  this  sort  of  talk  must 


74  A   JILT'S   JOURNAL. 

be  all  Greek  to  you.  Besides,  you're  not  of  the  stuff 
those  women  are.  I  wonder  whether  they've  get 
such  a  thing  as  a  soul  between  them.  Certainly  they 
do  their  best  to  hide  it." 

"Do  they  always  make  sport  of  everything?" 

"It's  their  way;  it's  supposed  to  be  smart,  and 
one  caps  the  other.  They  ape  heartlessness  until 
they  seem  to  possess  it.  Now  and  then  you  may 
dig  up  a  bit  of  real  womanhood  under  the  veneer, 
but  it  takes  some  finding." 

"They  must  feel,  suffer,  love,  some  time  or  other 
in  their  lives?" 

"Perhaps  they  do,  but  there's  always  doctors,  and 
pick-me-ups,  and  fools — to  console  them !" 

I  was  silent.  This  first  peep  into  a  new  phase  of 
life  had  been  so  startling  that  it  took  time  to  re- 
adjust my  ideas  to  their  former  position. 

When  he  spoke  again  his  voice  was  earnest  and 
less  bitter. 

"I  hope,  Miss — Paula,"  he  said,  "that  you'll  never 
grow  up  into  a  woman  of  fashion.  You  heard  them 
jeer  at  innocence  and  men's  belief  in  it.  Take  my 
word,  a  man  does  believe  in  it,  does  reverence  when 
he  finds  it.  The  love  he  gives  his  mother,  his  wife, 
his  child,  is  the  only  sheet  anchor  his  nature  pos- 
sesses. When  that  drags,  or  is  cut  away,  he  doesn't 
much  care  what  becomes  of  himself.  I  daresay  it 
seems  a  bit  odd  I  should  talk  to  you  like  this,  but  I 
was  watching  you  during  luncheon,  and — after- 
ward, and  I  knew  none  of  them  would  show  ycu 
the  ropes,  only  jibe  and  mock.  You  said  something 
about  life  being  dull  here.  If  you  only  knew  h^v 
safe  that  dullness  is !  You  ought  to  bless  the  Fates 
for  it.  But,  of  course,  you  don't.  You'll  neve- 
be  content  until  you're  trying  your  wings  in 


A   JILT'S   JOUENAL.  75 

the  flight  to  conquest  like  the  rest  of  'em.  Not  all 
the  preaching  in  the  world  would  teach  a  girl  with 
your  eyes  and  hair  that  her  nest  in  the  hedge  is  bet- 
ter than  the  gilded  cage  in  town.  There ! — what  a 
duffer  you'll  think  me,  and  why  I  talk  like  this  I'm 
sure  I  don't  know.  It's  not  my  way,  and  how  the 
women  would  laugh  if  they  heard  me! — and  you?" 

"I  shall  not  laugh,"  I  said,  "although  it's  hard  to 
believe  the  world  is  so  harmful,  and  teaches  more  of 
wrong  than  right.  But  women  like  those  at  Quin- 
ton  Court " 

"They  are  a  contemptible  set,"  he  said.  "They 
ape  our  vices,  and  mock  at  all  womanly  virtues. 
The  very  word  is  old-fashioned — they  scream  at  it. 
They  were  only  baiting  you  all  the  time,  though  per- 
haps you  didn't  see  it.  Don't  ever  want  to  be  like 
one  of  them.  Evil's  an  insidious  thing;  it's  best 
not  handled.  Like  tar,  some  of  it's  pretty  sure  to 
stick  to  your  fingers !" 

We  were  silent  again  until  we  had  almost  reached 
the  house.  Then  I  took  my  courage  in  my  hands. 

"I  don't  know  your  name,"  I  said.  "They  only 
called  you " 

"Jim.  Yes,  that's  their  way.  I'll  give  you  my 
card,  if  you  like,  but  I  suppose  we'll  hardly  meet 
again.  I'm  leaving  here  to-morrow  and  going 
abroad.  Still,  I'm  glad  to  have  met  you.  It's  like 
a  breath  of  pure  air  after  a  night  of  cards  and  drink 
and  smoke.  After  some  such  night,  when  I  leave 
the  tables,  and  the  dice,  and  the  company  behind, 
I'll  remember  our  drive  and  our  talk.  They'll  per- 
haps help  to  keep  a  spark  of  good  alight  somewhere 
in  my  soul.  This  is  your  house,  isn't  it?" 

"Yes,"  I  said,  "and  thank  you  for  all  this  trouble, 
and  for  being  so  kind." 


76  A  JILT'S   JOURNAL. 

He  laughed  shortly.  "You  will  find  men  kind 
enough  to  a  face  like  yours,"  he  said.  "It's  the 
women  who'll  be  your  foes." 

I  sprang  lightly  down  from  the  step.  "Oh — 
your  card !  You  promised  it,"  I  said,  looking  up. 

He  shifted  the  reins  into  one  hand  and  searched 
his  pockets  with  the  other. 

"I  can't  open  it.  Take  case  and  all,"  he  said. 
"It'll  do  for  a  keepsake  in  memory  of  our  drive. 
Good-by  once  more." 

I  gave  him  my  hand  as  he  stooped  toward  me. 
Then  quite  suddenly  I  remembered  my  mother's 
book.  I  had  left  it  behind  at  the  Court. 

"Oh — I've  forgotten  my  book,"  I  said  hastily. 

"What  book?" 

"I  was  reading  it  when  Lady  Brancepeth  found 
me — up  on  the  castle  hill.  Will  you  please  ask  for 
it  when  you  go  back?  I  wouldn't  lose  it  for  the 
world." 

"What  makes  it  so  valuable  ?"  he  asked. 

"It's  written  by  my  mother.  It  is  the  only  one 
she  ever  had  published,  though  she  wrote  others." 

"So  you  are  the  daughter  of  an  authoress.  May 
I  ask  her  name?" 

"The  same  as  my  own,"  I  said,  "Paula  Trent." 

"And  is  she " 

"She  died,"  I  said,  "when  I  was  quite  a  little 
child.  I  have  no  memory  of  her." 

"I  will  get  your  book,  and  bring  it  back  to-mor- 
row." 

"But  I  thought  you  were  leaving " 

"So  I  am.  I'll  stop  here  on  the  way  to  the  sta- 
tion for  a  few  minutes — so  it's  only  (au  revoir! 

He  waved  his  hand  and  drove  off,  leaving  a  flat- 
tered, wondering  and  speculative  Paula  behind. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

MERRIELESS  brought  me  my  tea  as  usual  at  five 
o'clock.  She  was  brimful  of  curiosity  as  to  my  long 
absence. 

I  told  her  its  history.  Her  comments  amused  me. 
Also  her  prophecies  as  to  my  own  brilliant  doings 
in  the  near  future. 

"And  such  a  grand  gentleman  as  drove  you  home, 
miss,"  she  said. 

"He  is  an  officer,"  I  said,  with  a  glance  to  where 
the  Russia  leather  card-case  lay,  its  silver  mono- 
gram shining  in  the  lamplight. 

I  had  discovered  his  name  was  Captain  James 
Con  way,  and  I  had  a  pleasant  memory  of  Paula 
Trent,  the  schoolgirl,  capable  of  arousing  interest  in 
the  breast  of  a  gallant  soldier,  a  man  of  the  world, 
and  a  great  lady's  cavaliere  servente. 

She  was  indeed  coming  out  of  her  shell ! 

"How  did  you  see  him,  Merry?"  I  inquired. 

"I  was  just  lighting  the  lamp,  miss,  and  looked 
out  of  the  window  when  I  heard  the  wheels,  and 
you  a-talkin'  in  a  very  earnest  way,  miss.  I  looked 
incuriously,  but  there  was  light  enough  in  the  sky 
to  show  a  handsome  gentleman,  and  I  felt  he  was 
interested  by  the  way  he  held  your  hand,  and  looked 
down  at  you." 

"That's  nothing,  Merry;  only  politeness." 

;"Tis  always  politeness — at  first,  miss;  leading 
gradual  to  the  oncoming  of  familiarities;  walking 
out,  and  holding  hands,  and  such  like." 

77 


78  A   JILT'S   JOURNAL. 

I  drank  my  tea  slowly,  and  waited  for  further 
information. 

"You  see,  having  gone  through  it  all  myself, 
miss,  I've  got  the  knowledge.  And  though  with 
my  sort  'tis  more  nature  than  'by  your  leave,'  it  do 
mean  very  much  the  same  thing  in  the  end." 

"Yes?"  I  questioned. 

"'Tis  a  queer  hobble — love,"  she  continued.  "To 
think  of  the  days  that  come  and  go  and  not  a  mor- 
row of  them  with  any  extra  meaning,  till  sudden- 
like  it's — 'Will  I  be  seeing  him?'  or  'Will  he  be 
there?'  and  listening  for  a  step  you've'  come  to 
know  out  of  a  hundred  others,  and  sick  at  heart 
when  you  don't  hear  it,  and  all  of  a  flutter  if  you  do. 
And  lifted  sky  high  if  so  be  he's  kindly  disposed, 
and  down-dropped  to  what  Aunt  Graddage  do  call 
the  Valley  o'  Humblification  if  he  be  indifferent.  A 
wearing  thing,  miss,  even  at  the  best  way  o'  it." 

"It  seems  so,  indeed,"  I  said  gravely.  "And  all 
these  sensations  go  to  show  you're  in  love,  do  they, 
Merry?" 

"That's  right,  miss.  Then  it  gets  to  the  fever 
time.  That's  bad.  You've  got  to  mind  yourself 
then,  miss,  as  well  as  to  keep  him  in  his  place.  Yet 
not  to  be  too  chilling  neither  for  fear  o'  dispiriting 
his  fancies.  There's  so  many  wimmen  in  the  world 
that  a  man  can  just  pick  and  choose  where  he 
pleases,  and  ofttimes  the  ugly  ones  get  what  the 
pretty  ones  lose  by  sheer  rebelliousness." 

"How  came  you  to  learn  such  things,  Merry?"  I 
asked  her. 

'"Tis  Nature  teaches  us,  I  think,  miss,  and  the 
best  school-time  is  the  love-time." 

I  looked  thoughtfully  into  the  fire,  and  gave  the 
subject  due  consideration.  It  was  pleasant  to  be 


A  JILT'S   JOURNAL.  79 

initiated  into  such  mysteries,  to  feel  oneself  gliding 
down  the  stream  of  knowledge  helped  by  an  im- 
personal experience.  The  contrast  between  this 
country  girl's  simple  confessions,  and  the  mocking 
sneers  of  the  great  ladies  of  the  social  world,  inter- 
ested me  greatly.  I  was  getting  at  two  sides  of  an 
all-important  question,  yet  keeping  myself  in  the 
background  as  a  mere  inquirer. 

"Do  you  think  people  ever  fall  in  love  the  first 
time  they  see  each  other?"  I  asked. 

""Pis  mostly  men  as  does  that,  miss,  bein'  in  a 
manner  o'  way  caught  by  beauty,  and  the  snare  o' 
it.  I've  heerd  say  'tis  like  a  spark  lighting  on  furze, 
and  a  quick  blaze  to  follow.  But  that's  not  so  much 
the  way  in  our  manner  o'  life  as  in  the  higher  circles 
where  you'll  be  getting  to,  miss.  Wonderful  'tis, 
I've  heerd,  the  ways  o'  them.  Putting  the  whole 
sex  into  shape  o'  one  single  woman,  and  makin'  so 
much  o'  her  that  the  others  aren't  considered  no 
more  than  if  they  weren't  seen,  or  heerd  on.  A  rare 
way  o'  loving — that,  miss,  and  'twill  come  along  the 
way  o'  yourself  or  I'm  much  mistaught." 

"I  can't  think  how  you  come  to  know  so  much,"  I 
said,  laughing.  "You're  a  perfect  encyclopaedia  on 
affairs  of  the  heart,  Merry !" 

"I  do  prime  myself  on  some  knowlageableness, 
miss,"  she  said  complacently.  "Not  in  the  way  o' 
bein'  proud  or  vain-glorious,  seein'  how  it  came  to 
me  through  much  tribulation.  But  I've  been  told 
stories  o'  this  sort  by  them  as  has  been  deceived,  and 
them  as  hasn't.  'Tis  a  way  o'  talkin'  girls  get  to, 
not  bein'  gifted  with  fine  feelin's  as  you're  brought 
up  to,  miss." 

"I  wonder,"  I  said,  "if  the  knowledge  is 
useful?" 


80  A   JILT'S   JOURNAL. 

"Must  be,  miss ;  or  you'll  court  experience  with  a 
babe's  helplessness,  'stead  o'  a  woman's  wit." 

I  sat  by  the  fire  long  after  she  had  left  me  and 
pondered  these  things  in  my  heart.  I  also  wrote  a 
long  letter  to  Lesley,  mentioning  my  new  acquaint- 
ances and  Lady  Brancepeth's  friendship  with  her 
stepmother.  There  seemed  a  great  deal  to  tell,  once 
I  began  to  write,  or  else  my  habit  of  putting  small 
events  into  many  words,  and  building  a  history 
round  them,  had  again  come  into  play. 

I  wrote  of  the  young  farmer,  Adam  Herivale.  I 
contrasted  him  incidentally  with  Captain  Conway. 
It  seemed  odd  that  in  so  short  a  time  I  should  have 
met  two  men  so  totally  different  in  station,  manners 
and  breeding,  and  could  write  so  freely  of  both. 
When  the  letter  was  finished,  I  found  there  was 
still  an  hour  before  supper.  I  was  at  a  loss  how 
to  employ  my  time. 

The  cold,  dreary  drawing-room  possessed  no 
piano,  nor  did  Graddage  consider  it  necessary  to 
light  a  fire  there  except  on  Sundays — "to  air  it,"  as 
she  called  that  office.  I  had  only  my  school  books 
to  read,  and  I  felt  I  had  had  quite  enough  of  them  in 
the  years  that  had  passed.  I  felt  angry  at  my  stu- 
pidity in  leaving  my  mother's  book  behind.  It 
would  have  been  so  pleasant  to  sit  by  the  fire  and 
finish  those  confessions  of  Fenella. 

I  grew  so  restless  that  I  went  to  the  window  and 
drew  up  the  blind.  The  moon  was  at  the  full  and 
shone  with  dazzling  brightness.  A  touch  of  frost 
silvered  the  holly  tree  and  the  grass,  and  made  dia- 
monds along  the  graveled  walk.  I  suddenly  resolved 
to  go  out.  The  posting  of  my  letter  would  be  ex- 
cuse ;  there  was  no  need  to  ask  permission.  I  seemed 
free  to  do  as  I  pleased  since  I  had  come  to  Scarffe. 


A   JILT'S   JOURNAL.  81 

I  got  into  jacket  and  hat  without  delay,  took  up 
the  letter,  and  ran  downstairs.  As  I  reached  the 
hall  Mrs.  Graddage  came  out  of  the  dining-room. 
She  stared  at  me. 

"You're  surely  not  goin'  walking  by  yourself, 
Miss  Paula,  at  this  hour  o'  night!"  she  exclaimed. 

•'What's  the  matter  with  the  hour?"  I  asked. 

"'Tis  unseemly  for  young  ladies  to  be  walkin* 
abroad  alone." 

"I  don't  suppose  the  professor  would  come  if  I 
asked  him,  and  I'm  only  going  to  the  post.  As  for 
being  alone  here,  why,  I  don't  suppose  there's  a  soul 
in  the  streets.  They've  all  gone  to  bed,  poor 
things !" 

"  'Twas  a  holiday,  and  there  may  be  rough 
farmin'  folk  about." 

I  laughed.  "I'll  risk  that,  Graddy.  If  I  don't 
turn  up  by  supper  time  you  can  send  Merrieless  to 
look  for  me.  My  absence  won't  cost  the  professor 
an  anxious  moment." 

I  opened  the  door  and  went  out  to  the  tune  of  "A 
generation  lofty  in  their  own  eyes,  and  their  eye- 
lids lifted  up !" ' 

I  laughed  softly  to  myself  as  I  walked  over  the 
uneven  pavement. 

"Could  Graddy  ever  have  been  a  girl  ?"  I  thought. 
"What  a  queer  one.  I  can't  imagine  her  ever  feeling 
young,  even  when  she  was  it.  And  yet  she  found  a 
man  to  marry  her.  What  a  life  she  must  have  led 
him!" 

Then  my  thoughts  flew  off  on  a  new  tack. 

The  cold,  brisk  air  set  my  blood  tingling.  Above 
my  head  the  sky  was  thickly  studded  with  glittering 
stars.  Serene  and  pure  the  full  moon  hung  like  a 
ball  of  white  flame  above  the  ruined  castle.  To  look 


82  A   JILT'S   JOURNAL. 

at  that  stately  pile  from  here  was  to  feel  all  its  won- 
der and  romance.  To  picture  the  ghosts  of  dead 
and  gone  heroes  leaning  over  those  ruined  battle- 
ments, crossing  that  ancient  drawbridge,  moving  in 
stately  measure  over  the  green  slopes,  gazing  with 
sad  eyes  over  scenes  they  had  known  in  their  stir- 
ring and  martial  lives. 

Insensibly  the  spell  of  the  ruins  began  to  work 
upon  me.  To  be  so  constantly  overshadowed  by 
them  was  to  feel  their  strange,  eventful  history  as- 
serting its  claim  on  memory,  and  linking  the  past  to 
present  associations. 

A  quarter  of  an  hour's  walk  brought  me  to  the 
entrance  of  the  little  town,  and,  as  Graddy  had 
said,  I  found  it  in  a  comparatively  lively  condition. 
Farmers'  carts  and  wagons  were  rolling  home- 
ward. In  the  deep  old  doorways  friends  were  tak- 
ing noisy  leave  of  each  other.  The  inn  was  astir 
with  holiday  folk,  old  and  young,  and  a  general 
joviality  seemed  professing  it  was  Christmas  time 
and  excusing  an  extra  glass  on  the  strength  of 
it. 

I  dropped  my  letter  into  the  box,  then  remem- 
bering I  had  no  stamps,  went  to  buy  some.  The 
post-office  combined  its  own  duties  with  those  of 
a  grocer's  store.  It  appeared  to  be  doing  a  brisk 
trade  this  evening. 

I  stood  a  little  aside  waiting  my  turn;  glancing 
over  backs  and  heads,  shawls  and  hats  of  all  descrip- 
tions. Among  them  I  descried  my  friend  the  young 
farmer.  He  too  was  buying  stamps.  As  he  turned 
from  the  counter  we  were  face  to  face,  and  it  pleased 
me  to  see  the  warm  color  rise  in  his  own,  the  flash 
of  pleasure  in  his  eyes. 

He  lifted  his  cap  and  wished  me  "Good  evening." 


A   JILT'S   JOURNAL.  83 

"I  am  waiting  to  get  some  stamps,"  I  said. 

''Can  I  get  them  for  you?  There's  rather  a 
crowd." 

"If  you  will,"  I  said,  handing  him  a  shilling. 

In  a  few  moments  he  was  back  with  the  purchase. 

"Is  that  all  ?"  he  inquired. 

"Yes,  I've  no  housekeeping  to  look  after." 

"It's  a  bit  late  for  you  to  be  out  alone,"  he  re- 
marked as  we  left  the  shop. 

"What's  to  harm  me?"  I  asked  carelessly.  "A 
quiet  place  like  this  is  as  safe  as  the  kitchen  at  home. 
And  I  wanted  to  get  rid  of  an  hour,  so  I  ran  out 
to  post  a  letter." 

"I'm  late  returning  to  Woodcote,"  he  said;  "but 
mother  gave  me  a  lot  of  commissions  to  do  for  her. 
I'm  going  to  a  friend's  presently  to  call  for  my  sis- 
ters. Can  I  have  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you  a  bit  of 
the  way  home  ?" 

"Oh — if  you  like,"  I  said  indifferently.  "Do  you 
often  come  into  the  town?" 

"Yes,  when  things  are  wanted.  Father  or  I  have 
to ;  and  he  doesn't  care  much  about  it  now." 

"What  a  lovely  night,"  I  said,  glancing  skyward. 
"Do  you  know  the  sky  looks  clearer  here  than  it  did 
at  Salisbury." 

"We're  much  higher  up,  and  the  air  is  fine  and 
rare  on  these  hills.  Cold  enough  in  winter  time 
though.  This  is  a  wonderful  mild  night  for  the 
time  o'  year." 

"I  think  it  cold  enough,"  I  said.  "There's  frost 
on  the  fields." 

"We'll  be  having  skating  if  it  lasts.  There's  a 
fine  pond  nigh  our  farm,  the  Mere  Pond  it's  called. 
A  couple  o'  nights  like  this  and  the  ice  will  bear  fine. 
Do  you  skate,  Miss  Trent  ?" 


84  A   JILT'S   JOURNAL. 

"No.  I'd  like  to,  but  I've  never  had  a  chance  of 
learning." 

"I'd  be  proud  to  teach  you,  if  you'll  let  me." 

"I  should  think  I  would !"  I  said  eagerly.  "Whys 
I'm  thankful  for  anything  to  lighten  these  long,  dull 
days." 

He  looked  up  again  at  the  brilliant  sky.  "I  think 
we're  in  for  a  spell  o'  cold.  Could  you  find  your 
way  out  to  the  farm  supposing  the  frost  lasted? 
It's  a  goodish  bit  to  walk." 

"Oh !  I'm  not  afraid  of  a  walk,"  I  said.  "And  I 
can  bring  my  maid  to  show  me  the  way.  By  the 
way,  she's — what  do  you  call  it  ? — keeping  company 
with  a  young  man  on  your  farm.  Gregory — some- 
thing— I  forget  the  name." 

"There's  two  Gregorys,"  he  said,  and  I  saw  him 
smile.  "Can't  be  the  old  one,  Miss  Trent,  though 
he's  a  rare  favorite  with  the  women.  Quite  a  char- 
acter is  old  Blox." 

"Ah,  that's  the  name!  It's  the  young  one,  but 
the  fame  of  the  father  has  reached  me  already." 

Again  he  smiled. 

"The  old  rascal's  got  into  mischief  sometimes," 
he  said.  "It's  odd  that  the  son  should  be  so  staid 
and  proper,  and  the  old  one,  who  ought  to  know 
better,  such  a  Lothario." 

We  were  out  of  the  town  now,  and  the  road 
lay  before  us,  a  white  straight  line  in  the  moon- 
light. 

I  stopped  suddenly.  "You  really  need  not  come 
further,"  I  said.  "I'm  taking  you  out  of  your  way, 
and  there's  no  necessity  for  it." 

"I'd  rather  see  you  safe  back  if  you  don't  mind. 
There  are  not  many  bad  characters  about,  I  know, 
but  now  and  then  a  tramp  or  a  laborer,  carrying  a 


A   JILT'S   JOURNAL.  85 

drop  too  much,  have  been  known  to  molest  stran- 
gers. Please  let  me." 

"Oh,  if  you  wish.    I  don't  mind,"  I  said. 

"I'd  go  home  more  easy  in  my  mind,"  he  an- 
swered, and  again  we  walked  on. 

All  the  quiet  country,  shut  in  by  those  ever-cir- 
cling hills,  lay  in  a  profound  and  beautiful  peace 
about  us.  There  was  no  sound  save  the  occasional 
sharp  interrogation  of  a  dog,  the  echo  of  our  own 
footsteps  on  the  frozen  road. 

"How  beautiful  night  always  is,"  he  said. 

"Yes;  but  I  like  the  summer  nights  best." 

"You  would,"  he  answered.  "Being  young  and 
a  woman,  and  full  of  the  poetry  of  things." 

"But  don't  you  prefer  June  to  December?" 

"Maybe — not,"  he  answered  slowly.  "There's 
things  can  make  our  summer-time  for  us  though  the 
snow's  on  the  ground,  and  never  a  bird  to  sing ;  and 
there's  a  cold  that  comes  to  heart  and  soul  that  never 
a  June  sun  can  warm." 

"You've  lived  those  things,  and  I  suppose  you 
understand  them.  I  haven't." 

"I'd  be  sorry  to  know  you  had,  Miss — Trent. 
'Tis  a  beautiful  time  coming  for  you.  Youth  and 
beloved  womanhood.  When  I  look  at  a  young  girl 
on  the  threshold  of  life,  so  to  say,  it  seems  to  me  al- 
ways as  if  she  had  her  hands  full  of  pearls;  pure 
thoughts,  pure  dreams,  pure  hopefulness.  And  it's 
hard  on  her  that  the  world's  so  full  of  other  greedy 
hands  snatching  them  for  sport  o'  the  thing,  and 
mostly  throwing  them  into  the  mud  and  trampling 
them  so  that  she  never  can  pick  them  up — as  they 
were." 

"That's  very  pretty,"  I  said,  "but  very  fanciful. 
You're  more  like  a  poet  than  a  farmer." 


S9  A   JILT'S   JOURNAL. 

"Am  I  ?  Then  'tis  because  I  love  it  so.  Poetry's 
an  education  of  the  soul;  'tis  the  finest  sort  o'  re- 
ligion, I  often  think." 

I  remembered  "Extracts  for  the  Use  of  Schools" ; 
the  reciting-  of  "Casabianca,"  and  "Excelsior,"  and 
"The  May  Queen."  And  I  demurred. 

"Have  you  ever  read  Shelley?"  he  asked. 

"No.  We  weren't  allowed  to  read  poetry  at 
school." 

"My !  What  strange  ways  they  do  have  of  edu- 
cating girls — young  ladies,  I  mean." 

"Perhaps  they're  afraid  of  making  us'  romantic." 

"Beautiful  thoughts  put  into  beautiful  words 
couldn't  harm  anyone,"  he  answered.  "It  has  come 
to  me  often  while  reading  that  the  world  isn't  half 
grateful  enough  to  its  authors.  They  give  us,  in 
their  way,  what  God  gave  in  His.  For  a  thought 
must  have  words  to  clothe  it,  and  'tis  the  words 
make  it  comprehensible  and  comforting.  He 
couldn't  speak  save  by  the  voice  of  the  flesh,  so  He 
clothed  His  thought  with  life  and  set  it,  a  man 
amongst  men,  to  speak  of  His  glory.  And  'twas 
only  a  few  could  read  that  book,  but  see  what  a 
power  it  held.  For  the  world  can't  ever  forget  it, 
till  it  ceases  to  be  a  world." 

I  thought  how  well  he  spoke  when  he  was  moved 
to  eloquence.  It  might  have  been  better  for  me  to 
have  rested  content  with  that  thought  instead 
of  pursuing  its  reason,  and  giving  it  a  motive 
power. 

But  the  newly  discovered  Paula  was  waking  rap- 
idly to  a  sense  of  feminine  importance,  and  her  na- 
ture, as  it  awakened,  spread  eager  wings  for  further 
flight  to  realms  of  enchanting  discoveries. 

A  man's  nature,  at  once  so  simple,  and  earnest, 


87 


and  plain-spoken  as  was  Adam  Herivale's,  seemed 
to  afford  an  excellent  region  for  exploration. 

Propriety,  as  instilled  into  the  virgin  mind,  has  a 
certain  falseness  about  it  that  soon  clamors  for 
banishment.  Once  out  of  leading  strings,  the  claims 
of  conventionality  are  more  likely  to  be  cut 
asunder,  than  treated  as  a  curb.  I  sent  my  hamper- 
ing guardian  galloping  down  the  hill  of  freedom  on 
this  occasion,  and  talked  and  was  talked  to  by  a 
wholesome,  manly  tongue,  as  I  had  never  been  by 
governesses  and  teachers. 

It  seemed  to  brace  and  refresh  me.  But  I  saw  no 
dangers  ahead,  and  the  discovery  that  I  was  worth 
talking  to  was  exhilarating. 

Afterward,  when  I  taxed  memory  to  recall  his 
words,  when  I  thought  them  over  in  solitude,  I 
found  myself  asking  would  anyone  else  in  Paula 
Trent's  place  have  served  equally  well  as  Adam 
Herivale's  listener.  I  might  have  believed  it,  in  a 
sudden  fit  of  humility,  but  for  two  things. 

One  was  a  look  in  those  clear  blue  eyes,  as  he 
shook  hands;  the  other  his  parting  words — "How 
I  shall  pray  for  this  frost  to  continue,  Miss  Trent !" 

The  look  held  a  certain  lingering  admiration  that 
spoke  something  more  than  a  homage  to  sex.  The 
words — a  hardly  suppressed  desire  for  future  meet- 
ings. 

To  me  neither  meant  more  than  a  self-revelation 
eminently  flattering,  and  a  promise  of  further 
triumphs. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

A  SUNBEAM  fluttering  into  my  room  next  morn- 
ing laid  a  light,  awakening  touch  on  my  eyelids,  and 
I  opened  them  to  its  dancing  welcome. 

For  a  few  moments  I  lay  quietly  content  with 
warmth,  and  the  brightness  of  the  outer  world,  and 
the  thrice-blessed  knowledge  that  I  was  no  longer 
compelled  to  rise  at  a  given  moment,  face  the  cold 
of  the  atmosphere  as  well  as  the  water  jug,  and  de- 
scend with  half-frozen  fingers  to  a  meal  of  porridge, 
thick  bread,  and  weak  tea. 

"Life  is  getting  very  pleasant,"  I  said  compla- 
cently, and  let  my  thoughts  stray  to  and  fro  over 
the  eventfulness  of  three  apparently  uneventful 
days. 

By  that  simple  number  I  alone  counted  my  free- 
dom. Yet  they  had  been  full  enough  of  import- 
ance to  lend  a  tinge  of  excitement  to  memory  as  I 
passed  them  in  review. 

"And  to-day,"  I  thought  to  myself,  "I  shall  see 
him  again." 

Remembering  there  were  two  "hims"  now  con- 
cerned in  my  destiny,  I  particularized  this  special 
one  by  the  name  my  mind  had  given  him — "Captain 
Jim!" 

What  a  pity  he  was  going  away!  How  nice  it 
would  have  been  to  be  taught  skating  by  him. 

Did  those  hothouse  exotics  at  Quinton  Court 
skate?  I  wondered.  They  looked  so  useless,  with 
their  tight-fitting  gowns,  and  tiny  waists  and  high- 

88 


A   JILT'S   JOUKNAL.  89 

heeled  shoes  and  marvelously  coiffured  hair,  that  I 
could  not  picture  them  doing  anything  requiring 
natural  exertion.  Well,  I  should  soon  know. 

Merry's  entrance  aroused  me  from  sleepy  content. 
My  first  inquiry  was  as  to  the  weather. 

"Freezing  hard,  miss,  and  cold  fit  to  bite  your 
nose  off,"  was  her  answer. 

"Good  for  skating?"  I  said. 

"Maybe  to  those  as  have  liberty.  That's  not  a 
sort  of  playment  as  often  comes  my  way." 

"I'm  going  to  learn,"  I  said,  stretching  a  hand 
for  the  cup  of  tea  she  had  brought. 

"  'Tis  only  right  you  should  do  aught  that  will 
pleasure  you,  miss,  being  so  young  and  frolicsome 
as*  you  are." 

I  laughed  gayly.  "Don't  you  feel  like  that  too, 
Merry?  You're  not  so  much  older." 

"Save  in  the  ways  o'  knowledge,  miss.  A  differ- 
ent sort  o'  knowledge  to  your  book  learning,  'tis 
true,  but  it  doesn't  seem  to  leave  the  heart  as  young 
as  it  might  be." 

I  dressed,  and  went  downstairs  to  find  the  pro- 
fessor looking  very  pinched  and  cold,  warming  his 
coat  tails  at  the  fire  as  usual. 

To  him  I  also  confided  my  views  on  skating.  He 
knew  nothing  of  the  Mere  Pond,  though  he  had 
some  acquaintance  with  the  Herivale's  history. 

"A  good  old  yeoman  family,"  .he  said.  "Date 
back  to  the  sixteenth  century.  You'll  find  them 
mentioned  in  old  chronicles  of  the  county." 

"Oh,  then,  there's  no  harm  in  my  knowing 
them?" 

"Harm,"  he  repeated,  and  pushed  back  his  spec- 
tacles to  regard  me.  "How  could  there  be  harm, 
child?  What  do  you  mean?" 


90  A  JILT'S   JOUKNAL. 

"I  have  met  Adam  Herivale,  the  son,  two  or  three 
times,  and  he  has  offered  to  teach  me  skating." 

"A  fine  healthy  exercise  and  one  to  be  encour- 
aged," said  the  professor,  looking  out  at  the  bright 
sunshine.  "I  regret  it  is  beyond  my  power  to  ac- 
company you ;  but" — his  brow  cleared,  he  removed 
his  glasses — ''there's  Graddage,"  he  said;  "she'd  go 
with  you  as — ah — as  chaperon." 

"Thank  you,"  I  said,  laughing.  "I  fancy  I  see 
her  face  while  waiting  about  for  me  at  the  pond's 
side  this  weather.  Oh,  no !  professor.  There's  no 
need  for  her  to  martyrize  herself.  I'm  all  right. 
Very  probably  some  of  the  people  staying  with  Lord 
St.  Ouinton  will  be  skating  also.  I  told  you  I 
lunched  there  and  had  a  general  introduction  yester- 
day." 

"So  you  did,  my  dear,  so  you  did.  A  first  intro- 
duction to  society  you  called  it.  Was  it  a  pleasant 
one?" 

"Not  at  all,"  I  said  indifferently.  "I  didn't  enjoy 
it.  They  all  seemed  so  heartless  and  frivolous.  Not 
a  man  spoke  as  sensibly  as  Adam  Herivale  does." 

"I  have  often  found,"  he  said,  "that  the  cultured 
classes  rarely  display  an  intelligent  interest  in — ah 
— subjects  that  should  appeal  to  intelligence." 

I  laughed.  "If  you  could  have  listened  to  the 
conversation  at  that  luncheon  table  yesterday  your 
opinion  would  have  been  confirmed.  They  only 
talked  of  themselves  and  their  acquaintances,  and 
all  the  idiotic  things  they  did — at  least  they  seemed 
idiotic  to  me." 

He  regarded  me  with  grave  interest. 

"It  occurs  to  me,  Paula,  that  I  have  another  duty 
to  perform  with  regard  to  you.  I — I  confess  I 
hardly  know  how  to  set  about  it.  You  will  natural- 


A  JILT'S   JOURNAL.  M 

ly  look  for  pleasures  and  amusements  suitable — ah 
— to  your  years — years  I  have  left  such  a  long  way 
behind.  I — I  must  consider  the  matter.  Parties 
and  dances  I  imagine  come  into  the  category  of  a 
young  girl's  expectations.  Things  quite  out  of  my 
line,  you  must  allow.  But  because  I  am  an  old 
bookworm  it  does  not  follow  that  your  youth  should 
be — ah — ostracized.  The  matter  must  be  duly  con- 
sidered. Perhaps  Lady  St.  Quinton  would  assist 
me.  She  has  always  seemed  a  very  agreeable 
woman,  and — ah — fairly  intelligent." 

I  looked  at  him  in  some  surprise.  "That  is  what 
the  girls  called  'coming  out.'  But,  dear  professor, 
am  I  in  a  position  to  move  in  London  society — such 
society  as  those  people  at  Quinton  Court  represent  ? 
You  have  no  adequate  idea  of  their  extravagance. 
Why  the  women  talked  of  paying  twenty-five 
guineas  for  a  simple  morning  frock,  as  I  would  of 
as  many  shillings." 

"Did  they?"  he  said  absently.  "But  you  have 
money,  Paula,  and  so  have  I.  Frocks  can  be 
bought." 

I  laughed. 

"I  know  that,  professor,  but  out  of  my  allowance 
of  a  hundred  a  year  I  hardly  see  how  I  could  buy 
them  at  twenty-five  guineas  each?  That  wouldn't 
leave  much  for  boots  and  shoes,  and  hats  and  jack- 
ets, and  all  the  other  things  constituting  a  well- 
Iressed  woman.  No — such  extravagances  are  not 
"  r  me.  With  my  friend  Lesley  Heath  it  is  a  differ- 
ent matter.  She  will  go  to  Drawing-rooms,  and  be 
introduced  into  the  proper  set,  and  probably  marry 
a  title.  That  is  what  her  mother  expects,  so  I  was 
told  by  her  mother's  friends.  But  who  is  Paula 
Trent  that  she  should  entertain  such  ambitions? 


93  A   JILT'S   JOURNAL. 

They  called  me  'country  mouse,'  and  I  think  I  had 
better  remain  that." 

"It  is  for  you  to  decide,  my  dear,"  he  said,  and  I 
fancied  I  saw  relief  in  his  face.  "The  position  you 
would  take  in  the  world  would  not  be  that  of  a  titled 
nor  wealthy  young  lady.  But  there  are  possibilities 
of  success — in — in  other  ways." 

"We  will  leave  them  at  possibilities,"  I  said,  "for 
the  present.  Let  me  look  on  at  life  for  a  little  while, 
professor,  before  I  plunge  into  it." 

Again  he  regarded  me  gravely,  with  natural 
vision  unobscured  by  glasses. 

"I  daresay  you  will  find  it  interesting,"  he  said. 
"You  seem  to  possess  a  considerable  amount  of 
sense  and  discrimination.  To  the  observer  of  life 
nothing  is  insignificant.  The  smallest  idiosyncrasy 
possesses  a  claim  on  the  attention — and  may  serve 
as  a  clue  to  the  character." 

"Oh!  I  don't  anticipate  writing  books,"  I  said, 
"though  I  should  like  to.  By  the  way,  professor, 
there's  one  favor  I'd  like  to  ask  of  you.  I  spent  a 
great  deal  of  time  at  school  on  music.  It  seems  a 
great  pity  not  to  keep  it  up.  Can  I  have  a  piano?" 

"By  all  means,  my  dear.  Order  one  as  soon  as 
you  please." 

"Thank  you,"  I  said  heartily.  "But  I  hope  the 
sound  won't  disturb  you  ?" 

"Oh !  I  think  not.  I  think  not.  When  I  am  en- 
grossed in  study,  my — ah — outer  senses  are  quite 
impervious  to  any  intrusion  from  other  sources. 
And  I  used  to  be  very  fond  of  music,"  he  added. 

He  left  the  table  and  went  to  the  window  and 
looked  out  for  a  moment.  When  he  came  back  and 
stood  by  the  fire,  there  was  that  look  in  his  face  I 
had  learned  to  know. 


£  JILT'S   JOURNAL.  93 

"She — used  to  play  and  sing,"  he  said.  His  voice 
had  taken  a  lower  key,  there  was  a  reminiscent  sad- 
ness in  it.  "How  long  ago  it  all  seems!  But  the 
old  music  book  is  still  in  my  possession.  You  shall 
have  it,  my  dear.  Perhaps  you  will  give  me  the 
pleasure  now  and  then  of  hearing  the  old  tunes — the 
old  songs.  There  was  one  I  specially  liked.  I  sup- 
pose you  have  heard  of  it.  It  would  be  old  fash- 
ioned now,  of  course.  It  was  about  a  wreath  of 
roses.  Foolish  words,  but  there  was  a  pathetic 
meaning  in  them  when  she  sang;  and  once,  in  her 
laughing,  girlish  way,  she  curled  her  hair  and  put 
on  a  wreath  of  flowers  like  the — the  picture  on  the 
title-page  of  the  song.  But  that  night  I  remember 
she  refused  to  sing  the  last  verse." 

"What  was  the  last  verse  ?"  I  asked,  intensely  in- 
terested in  all  these  traits  of  that  unknown  mother 
of  mine. 

"I  think,"  he  said  thoughtfully,  "that  the  girl  is 
first  crowned  with  roses  in  the  beauty  and  gayety  of 
youth.  Then  she  wears  the  orange  blossoms,  the 
circlet  of  the  bride;  and  at  last  the  widow's  cap, 
emblem  of  loss  and  broken-heartedness.  All  very 
sentimental,  my  dear,  and  absurd,  no  doubt,  but 
sometimes — in  the  after  years — one  looks  back  on 
such  trifles,  and  sentiment  seems  less  foolish  than  it 
sounds." 

I  could  never  remember  having  kissed  the  profes- 
sor in  all  my  memories  of  our  life  together.  Now, 
moved  by  some  inexplicable  impulse,  I  went  swiftly 
across  the  room  and  put  my  arms  about  his  neck. 
"How  fond  you  were  of  her!"  I  said  impulsively. 
"How  well  you  remember!" 

He  stroked  my  hair  as  my  head  lay  against  the 
shoulder  of  his  shabby  old  coat.  "You  have  found 


94  A   JILT'S   JOURNAL. 

that  out,  my  dear,"  he  said  gently.  "I  think  I  was 
— very  fond  of  her.  She  made  my  life  such  a  dif- 
ferent thing  while  she  was  in  it." 

"If  I  were  like  her  perhaps  you  would  be  fond  of 
me,  too,"  I  said.  "It's  very  lonely  to  have  no  home 
love  when  one's  young." 

My  face  was  hidden,  but  I  seemed  to  feel  the 
surprise  of  his  look,  even  as  I  felt  the  check  of  his 
pausing  hand. 

"Poor  little  girl,"  he  said  softly.  "Poor  little 
Paula.  Has  it  seemed  like  that  to  you?  I  must  try 
and  remember " 

"Oh,  no.  I  don't  want  you  to  alter  your  life  or 
your  habits — only  to  feel  that  I'm  not  in  your  way, 
that  you  don't  mind  if  I  tell  you  all  the  things  that 
interest  or  happen  to  me." 

"I  shall  be  pleased  if  you  will,"  he  said.  "Young 
life  has  a  certain  charm  in  its  very  ignorance  and 
freshness.  It  is  so  illogical  and  romantic,  and  yet 
so  vivid.  My  dear,  never  fancy  I  don't  love  you 
because  I — I  don't  express  it.  My  tongue  has  lost 
its  trick  of  pretty  words — grown  rusty  for  want  of 
use.  You  must  charm  it  back,  Paula." 

He  lifted  my  head  and  looked  at  me  closely. 

"Her  eyes,"  he  said,  in  a  strangely  quiet  voice. 
"Her  eyes  looking  back  at  me  as  I  remember  she 
used  to  look.  Heaven  grant,  child,  they  may  never 
hold  what  I  have  seen  in  hers." 


CHAPTER  X. 

I  SPENT  the  rest  of  the  morning  rearranging  the 
stiff  drawing-room;  altering  the  position  of  furni- 
ture, deciding  where  my  piano  should  go,  and  won- 
dering whether  such  things  as  palms  or  screens  or 
drapery  could  possibly  make  it  in  any  sort  of  sem- 
blance to  one  of  the  rooms  at  Quinton  Court. 

Fortunately  it  had  some  good  points.  The  paper 
was  a  plain,  deep-toned  terra-cotta,  and  the  lace  cur- 
tains were  supported  either  side  by  heavy  velvet 
ones  rich  in  hue  and  texture.  I  foresaw  a  new  ar- 
rangement of  draping  them,  and  I  called  in  Merry 
to  help,  and  bring  the  steps. 

We  were  both  engrossed  in  work,  and  chattering 
like  two  magpies,  when  the  sound  of  wheels  at- 
tracted our  attention.  I  sprang  down  from  my 
perch  and  surveyed  a  flushed  face,  dusty  hands,  and 
tumbled  hair  with  horror. 

"It's  Captain  Jim,  of  course.  I'd  quite  forgotten. 
You  must  ask  him  in,  Merry.  He's  on  his  way  to 
the  station,  so  I  can't  keep  him  waiting." 

She  ushered  him  in,  and  I  displayed  my  dusty 
hands  by  way  of  greeting. 

"Consider  we've  shaken  'how  d'ye  do/  Look  at 
this  dust !  I've  been  energetically  trying  to  alter 
this  room  into  something  more  artistic.  It  doesn't 
look  very  promising,  does  it?" 

"I  think  it  looks  charming,"  he  said,  but  I  noticed 
his  eyes  went  no  farther  than  my  head. 

"It  may — some  day,"  I  answered  gleefully.    "I'm 

95 


96  A  JILT'S   JOURNAL. 

to  have  a  piano,  and  when  I  get  books  and  flowers 
and  a  screen  or  two  I  think  it  will  be  presentable." 

"I  have  a  lot  of  odds  and  ends  in  my  rooms  in 
town,"  he  said  eagerly.  "Bits  of  Algerian  and  In- 
dian drapery,  pottery,  and  all  that.  I  wish  you'd  do 
me  the  favor  to  accept  some.  They're  no  earthly 
good  to  me,  for  I'll  be  at  least  three  years  in  Egypt 
— and  they're  just  the  sort  of  things  you  could  never 
pick  up  here,  or  even  in  town." 

"Thank  you  very  much,"  I  said.  "But  really, 
Captain  Conway,  I  am  your  debtor  already  for  a 
very  charming  gift,  and  I  cannot  afford  to  be  under 
any  more  obligations." 

"Obligations — stuff!  It's  only  useless  lumber  to 
me.  If  I  leave  it  behind,  I'll  never  see  it  again. 
Why  shouldn't  you  give  me  such  a  simple  pleasure 
as  knowing  the  stuff  was — where  you  are?" 

"You  put  it  very  nicely,"  I  said.  "But  I  don't 
feel  I  ought  to  accept  presents  in  this  lavish  fashion 
— Oh !  you  have  brought  my  book  back !" 

"Yes,  here  it  is.  I  found  one  of  the  women 
had  got  hold  of  it  and  was  reading  out  the  marked 
passages.  They're  wonderfully  clever.  Didn't  you 
say  your  mother  wrote  it?" 

"Yes.  I'm  very  glad  you  think  it  clever.  I — I 
suppose  those  people  made  fun  of  it?" 

"Oh,  no!  On  the  contrary,  it  hit  the  nail  too 
straight.  Cynicism  is  quite  the  fashion  now.  I 
really  think  they  were  sorry  when  I  insisted  on 
bringing  it  back  to  you.  Some  of  them  are  to  ask 
for  it  in  the  next  box  from  Mudie's. 

"I  hardly  think  they'll  get  it,"  I  said,  glancing  at 
the  date.  "My  mother  died  thirteen  years  ago,  and 
this  book  was  published  the  same  year." 

"You  have  neither  father  nor  mother?" 


A   JILT'S   JOURNAL.  97 

"No.  My  guardian  is  my  father's  brother,  and 
the  only  relative  I  have  heard  of.  I  was  left  to  his 
care." 

"Lord  St.  Quinton  mentioned  other  relatives  of 
yours,  I  believe." 

"I  have  never  heard  of  them,"  I  said  indifferently. 
Then  I  glanced  at  the  clock.  "Your  train  is  almost 
due,"  I  said. 

"What  a  broad  hint !  Well,  I  suppose  it  must  be 
good-by  this  time.  Never  mind  the  dusty  hands, 
Miss — Paula.  (I  never  think  of  you  by  any  other 
name.)  There  are  many  white  ones  less  clean!" 

He  took  both  of  them  in  his  own. 

"Little  girl,"  he  said  earnestly,  "I'd  like  to  think 
I  should  come  back  some  day  and  meet  you  as  I 
leave  you  now.  But  I  know  that's  impossible.  Only 
— if  it's  your  fate  ever  to  get  into  that  world  of 
which  you've  seen  one  specimen  yesterday,  don't 
let  them  corrupt  you.  They  will  if  they  can.  A 
laugh  or  a  sneer  makes  any  good,  pure  feeling  seem 
ridiculous,  and  one  gets  ashamed,  and  lets  it  fall 
into  the  mire.  It's  a  pity — but  I've  seen  it  so  often, 
with  men  and  women  both.  We're  such  fools! 
We'd  rather  be  called  wicked  than  odd !" 

He  pressed  my  hands  warmly  once  more,  and 
looked  down  into  my  upraised  eyes  with  strange 
earnestness. 

"Again  good-by — I  hope  you'll  be  happy — I 
hope  life  will  be  kind  to  you;  very  kind.  I  should 
hate  to  know  you  had  made  acquaintance  with  sor- 
row." 

"But  I  suppose  I  shall,"  I  said  involuntarily. 
"Everyone  does." 

"Yes,  you're  right.  Everyone  does.  But  I  hope 
your  day's  a  long  way  off.  Good-by  again.  I  shall 


98  A   JILT'S   JOURNAL. 

send  you  that  stuff.  If  you  don't  want  it,  pitch  it 
into  the  fire — but  if — you  like  me  ever  so  little  give 
it  place  about  your  home  for  my  sake." 

Then  he  went ;  and  I  watched  him  drive  off,  feel- 
ing a  little  bewildered,  and  yet  not  at  all  displeased. 

****** 

Merry  and  I  eagerly  watched  the  weather  and  the 
chance  of  the  wind  lasting. 

When  she  came  up  to  brush  my  hair  for  me  the 
last  thing,  she  informed  me  the  frost  still  held  out. 

Then  I  remembered  I  had  no  skates.  But  she 
reassured  me  by  the  information  that  there  were 
"lots  at  Herivale's.  More  than  they  need,"  she 
added. 

I  fell  to  studying  my  face  in  the  glass  before  me 
with  a  new  consciousness.  I  was  used  to  it,  having 
known  it  for  my  own  these  past  seventeen  years. 
Besides,  I  think  girls  are  no  judges  of  beauty.  At 
school  Lesley  had  been  acknowledged  our  prettiest 
girl.  Claire  ran  her  closely  in  some  opinions.  I 
had  never  inquired  about  my  own  share  in  such 
opinions  generally,  or  individually. 

Merry  energetically  plying  the  brush  caught  sight 
of  my  intent  eyes. 

"You've  a  wonderful  fine  head  o'  hair,  miss,"  she 
observed. 

"There's  plenty  of  it,"  I  said.  "But  I'm  doubtful 
of  the  color,  Merry.  Would  you  call  it — red  ?" 

"Bless  your  heart,  no,  miss.  'Tis  a  warm  color,  I 
grant,  but  run  through  with  streaks  o'  gold.  Just 
look,  when  the  light  falls  on  it!" 

She  held  up  a  strand,  which  certainly  did  glitter. 

"  'Tis  a  sort  o'  livin'  fire,"  she  went  on.  "I  never 
seed  such  a  color,  and  it  do  go  with  your  skin  and 
the  warmth  o'  cheek,  just  as  if  Natur'  had  meant  it 


A   JILT'S    JOURNAL.  9* 

should.  Were  you  considerin'  o*  your  looks,  miss, 
when  you  were  so  grave-like?  I  shouldn't  trouble 
if  I  were  you." 

"Oh,  I'm  not  troubling,"  I  said.  "Only  I  wish  I 
knew  if  they  were  pleasing.  At  school  I  never 
bothered,  but  when  I  was  among  all  those  grand 
people  at  the  Court  I  felt  they  were  criticising  every- 
thing about  me — my  hair,  my  face,  my  dress,  my 
manners.  It  was  horrid!" 

"Perhaps  they  was  envying  o'  them,  miss.  Not 
so  onlikely.  For  the  ladies'  maids  let  out  a  lot ;  and 
what  with  buttermilk  to  wash  their  faces  in,  and 
stuff  to  make  their  hair  golden,  and  color  to  put  on 
their  cheeks  instead  o'  what  Natur'  puts  into 
'em,  well,  maybe  they  was  a-wonderin'  how  you 
came  by  such  pure  flesh  and  blood  as  you've 
got.  The  gentlemen's  eyes  told  you  so,  or  I'm  no 
judge." 

I  thought  of  Captain  Conway,  but  flattering  as 
had  been  his  looks  I  could  not  tell  if  they  were  ap- 
preciative. All  country  girls  had  good  complexions 
and  clear  skins.  There  was  nothing  unusual  in  my 
possession.  For  my  own  part  I  admired  Lesley's 
dark  hair  and  pale  creamy  skin  and  violet  eyes  a 
thousand  times  more  than  my  own  red  and  white 
tints,  and  coppery  locks.  However,  as  no  amount 
of  thought  or  skill  could  alter  them,  I  knew  I  must 
be  satisfied. 

So  after  making  Merry  give  an  extra  long  brush 
to  that  strange  hair  by  way  of  making  it  shine  on 
the  morrow,  I  dismissed  her  and  went  to  bed. 

I  read  a  few  chapters  more  of  Fenella  before  I 
slept,  and  then  put  the  book  under  my  pillow  by 
way  of  having  something  of  her  close  to  me  in  my 
hours  of  sleep. 


100  A   JILT'S   JOURNAL. 

When  I  awoke  my  first  thought  was  of  the 
weather,  and  I  rushed  to  the  window. 

Crisp  hard  frost  still  reigned.  The  cold  was  in- 
tense. I  returned  to  bed  to  await  Merry  and  my 
morning  tea  with  a  delightful  knowledge  of  forth- 
coming excitement. 

Her  face  was  also  beaming.  "  'Tis  just  as  you 
wanted,  miss,"  she  informed  me  when  she  entered 
the  room.  "But  terrible  cold.  It's  to  be  hoped  you 
have  some  sort  o'  furs  for  wrappage  as  is  the  way 
o'  the  quality  generally  speaking,  otherwise  stand- 
ing about  by  that  Mere  Pond  will  be  the  sort  o' 
thing  to  freeze  your  very  marrow." 

"Oh,  I've  a  warm  coat,"  I  said,  thinking  of  a  cer- 
tain tailor-made  costume  of  dark-blue  cloth  and 
sable  that  I  had  been  measured  for  before  leaving 
school,  and  as  yet  unworn.  It  would  come  in  use- 
ful now,  and  so  would  the  little  dark-blue  velvet 
toque  that  went  with  it. 

I  put  on  the  dress  for  breakfast.  I  was  in  radiant 
spirits.  I  babbled  nonsense  during  the  meal  to  an 
extent  that  must  have  tried  the  professor's  patience, 
though  he  was  considerate  enough  to  put  up  with  it. 

As  soon  as  it  was  over  Merry  and  I  set  off  to  the 
dispiriting  croaks  of  Mrs.  Graddage  and  her  pro- 
verbs. They  could  not  affect  our  spirits,  however. 

The  air  was  keen  as  a  knife,  but  the  sun  shone 
brightly  over  the  hard,  white  road.  Everything 
sparkled.  A  gossamer  ripple  of  webs  spanned  the 
bushes,  the  robins  chirped  from  the  hedge-rows. 
Flocks  of  sheep  munched  the  swedes  cut  and  scat- 
tered in  the  fields.  Above  our  heads  the  sky  was 
blue  as  a  sapphire.  My  feet  danced  along;  I  could 
have  laughed  aloud  for  sheer  joy  of  living. 

It  was,  as  Adam  Herivale  had  said,  a  long  walk 


A  JILT'S   JOURNAL.  101 

to  the  Mere  Pond,  but  I  felt  capable  of  one  twice  its 
length  on  that  morning.  Merry  took  me  by  many 
short  cuts  and  twisting  lanes,  and  at  last  I  caught 
sight  of  the  old  farmhouse.  It  stood  in  a  dip  of  the 
valley,  the  hills  sheltering  it  to  north  and  east.  The 
house  itself  was  built  of  stone,  gray  and  lichen  cov- 
ered, as  was  the  slate  roof.  The  square  porch  was 
like  a  deep  recess,  and  ivy  grew  around  it  and  the 
latticed  windows.  The  fields  that  stretched  on  every 
side  were  of  course  but  dull  brown  patches  at  this 
time  of  year,  but  their  extent  surprised  me,  as  did 
the  farmsteads  and  barns  and  cottages  which  be- 
longed, so  Merry  told  me,  to  the  farm  acreage. 

As  we  came  into  the  road  again  we  saw  a  figure 
before  us  engaged  in  driving  a  cow  and  calf  into  an 
enclosure.  Merry  touched  my  arm. 

"  'Tis  he  I  told  you  of,  miss,"  she  said.  "The  old 
ancient  man  that  claims  fathership  to  my  Gregory." 

I  looked  at  the  queer  old  yokel  with  wondering 
interest. 

He  had  got  the  animals  through  a  field  gate,  and 
closed  it.  He  turned  toward  us  as  he  heard  our 
steps.  An  old,  wrinkled  face  of  natural  rusty  red,  a 
pair  of  deep-set,  twinkling  eyes,  a  thatch  of  gray, 
wiry  hair  under  a  battered  old  hat,  these  repre- 
sented the  famous  lady-killer  of  whom  I  had 
heard. 

"Good  morning,  father,"  said  Merry,  gaily.  "A 
fine  day,  isn't  it?" 

He  fixed  his  eyes  on  me,  and  touched  the  brim  of 
his  battered  hat. 

"The  sun  be  shining  fair,"  he  said  in  a  cracked, 
piping  voice.  "Come  down  out  o'  heaven,  I  should 
say,  in  form  o'  a  maiden.  A  rare  beauty,  Merrieless, 
and  puts  you  aside  same  as  a  extinguisher  does  a 


103  A   JILT'S   JOURNAL. 

light.  Not  o'  your  sort,  neither.  Why  comes  it 
you're  in  company?" 

"This  is  my  young  lady  whom  I  wait  upon,"  said 
Merry,  proudly.  "Miss  Trent  up  to  Scarffe  yonder. 
Surely  you've  heerd  o'  her  by  now  ?" 

"Not  to  my  remembrancing,"  said  the  old  man. 
"But  if  this  be  her,  she'll  pass  as  a  fine,  handsome 
piece  even  among  her  betters!" 

"Betters !"  snorted  Merry,  in  indignation.  "What 
betters  should  she  have,  being  a  lady  in  her  own 
right,  by  birth  and  breeding  and  family?" 

The  old  man  hung  his  head,  but  his  eyes  leered 
knowingly  under  the  shadow  of  his  hat. 

"You  were  allays  a  talkative  female,  Merrieless 
Hibbs,"  he  said.  "And  if  so  be  you'd  'a'  given  the 
young  lady  a  proper  introducing,  I  might  ha'  made 
her  my  compliments  in  better  style.  She's  a  dandy 
bit  and  no  mistake.  Be  ye  a-goin'  to  the  farm, 
miss?" 

"We  are  going  to  the  pond,"  I  answered.  "Will 
the  ice  bear?" 

"Fine.  The  young  maister's  been  up  t'ot  this 
hour  o'  more,  with  stable  lads  to  broom  for  him. 
And  I  do  hear  a  carriage  load  o'  quality  be  comin' 
down  noontide.  I  reckon  they'll  not  pass  your 
young  ladyship  for  merit  in  the  way  o'  looks." 

I  laughed.  And  so  pleased  was  he  by  that  appre- 
ciation that  he  gave  his  old  hat  a  jaunty  twist,  and 
pulled  at  his  waistcoat  until  it  threatened  to  reach 
his  ankles  as  well  as  his  knees. 

"Trust  my  judgment  as  a  man  o'  ripe  years,"  he 
went  on.  "And  not  a  shy  one,  neither.  'Tis  a  good- 
ish  bit  o'  mischief  I've  done  in  my  day,  but  a  bright 
eye  and  a  rosy  cheek  were  allays  o'  that  seducin* 
natur',  I  couldn't  but  play  to  them." 


A   JILT'S   JOURNAL.  103 

"It's  cold  standin'  here,"  interrupted  Merry. 
"We'd  better  be  gettin'  on,  miss." 

"Hsh — hsh !"  chuckled  the  ancient  sinner.  "  'Tis 
afeared  she  be  o'  I  makin'  a  loose  speech  hurtful  to 
the  feelin's  o'  modest  females.  But  I  knows  my 
place  where  ladies  is  concerned,  and  I  wouldn't 
cause  the  blush  o'  bashfulness  to  rise  i'  that  comely 
cheek,  so  there's  no  need  to  haste  away." 

"You  must  think  you're  mortal  entertainin',  if 
we've  naught  better  to  do  than  stand  listenin'  to 
your  rubbage!"  exclaimed  Merry.  "Come  along, 
Miss  Paula !" 

"You're  but  a  second-best  poor  sort  o'  girl," 
snapped  the  ancient,  with  a  display  of  one  unprepos- 
sessing tooth,  left,  like  a  forlorn  wreck  of  better 
things,  in  his  upper  jaw.  "And  forward,  too. 
For  'tis  the  young  lady  should  give  you  her  orders, 
not  t'other  way  about." 

"It  is  cold,  though,"  I  said.  "So  good  morning, 
Mr. — Blox.  I  daresay  I  shall  see  you  again." 

"Nawt  a  doubt  o'  that,"  he  assured  me  emphati- 
cally. "A  face  like  living  sunshine,  leave  alone 
such  a  finely  grawed  figger,  b'ain't  the  sort  o' 
things  as  Gregory  Blox  forgets." 

"You're  an  old  sinner,"  said  Merrieless,  "and 
ought  to  be  readin'  your  Bible,  and  thinkin'  o'  your 
latter  end,  'stead  o'  talkin'  onmeaning  words.  If 
my  young  lady  was  same  way  o'  thinkin'  as  myself, 
she'd  clout  your  old  ears  for  your  forwardness,  but 
then  I  suppose  'tis  your  age  makes  things  excus- 
able." 

I  slipped  a  shilling  into  the  wrinkled  old  hand, 
and  laughed  another  good  morning  at  sight  of  his 
astonished  face  and  dropped  lip. 

He  had  a  great  deal  more  to  say,  but  he  said  it  to 


104  A  JILT'S   JOURNAL. 

our  backs  as  we  hurried  off  to  the  pond,  skirting  the 
quaint  old  garden  that  surrounded  the  farmhouse. 

Another  quarter  of  an  hour  brought  us  to  the 
pond. 

Several  figures  were  moving  about.  Adam  Heri- 
vale's  stalwart  form  and  broad  shoulders  were  con- 
spicuous among  them.  He  saw  us  directly  and 
came  forward. 

I  shook  hands  with  him.  "You  see  I've  come," 
I  said.  "What  about  the  skating?" 

"The  ice  will  bear  fine,"  he  answered.  "I've 
heard  that  the  Quinton  Court  folk  are  coming  down 
presently.  This  is  the  best  skating  place  the  coun- 
try round.  It's  a  sort  of  lake,  though  we  call  it  a 
pond.  But  you've  no  skates,  Miss  Trent !"  he  added 
suddenly. 

"No;  I  never  thought  of  them,  or  I  suppose  I 
could  have  bought  some  in  the  village.  It  was  very 
stupid  of  me." 

"I'll  run  to  the  house  and  get  you  a  pair  of  my 
sister's." 

"But  won't  they  require  them  for  themselves?" 

"There's  extra  ones,"  he  said,  "and  an  hour  or 
two  will  put  you  into  the  way  of  it  before  the  great 
folks  come." 

He  turned  swiftly  and  was  off.  I  stood  watch- 
ing his  rapid  strides,  when  a  piping  voice  at  my 
elbow  startled  me. 

"Ladyship,"  it  said,  "I've  made  bould  to  bring 
you  these  skatey-irons.  I  seed  you'd  none  in  your 
hands,  nor  that  brazen  lass  o'  yours,  neither." 

I  looked  round  and  beheld  the  ancient  Gregory 
once  again.  He  was  holding  out  a  pair  of  lady's 
skates,  polished  and  sharpened,  and  evidently  ready 
for  use. 


A   JILT'S   JOURNAL.  105 

"Oh,  thank  you,"  I  said.  "But  Mr.  Herivale  has 
just  gone  to  fetch  me  a  pair  from  the  house." 

He  chuckled  feebly. 

"Like  eno'  these  be  the  ones.  Aye,  aye,  I  seed 
him.  'Twas  a  most  ungodly  haste  he  was  in.  Not 
a  'good  mornin','  or  a  'fine  day'  in  his  breath.  Don't 
be  perplexin'  your  pretty  head  wi'  any  manner  o' 
thought  as  to  trouble  taken  for  your  sake,  miss. 
Tis  in  the  nat'ral  way  o'  man  to  render  service  to 
woman,  and  when  she's  a  handsome  piece  o'  flesh 
and  blood  as  makes  a  pictur'  for  eyes  to  behold,  then 
the  service  is  honorarry,  so  to  say.  Honorarry," 
he  repeated,  as  if  the  ready-coined  syllable  pleased 
his  ear. 

"You  here  again,  you  old  piece!"  broke  in  Mer- 
ry's voice.  "What  manner  o'  business  can  you  have 
with  idleness  ?  'Tain't  your  play-time  yet." 

"I'm  tired  o'  work,  lass,  and  it  would  be  a  true 
comfort  to  watch  the  sportin'  as  goes  on  with  the 
superior  class.  And  the  pretty  ladies  a-glidin'  and 
a-slidin'  to  and  fro,  with  their  petticoats  a-flyin'  and 
their  ankles  twinkling.  Warms  the  blood  again,  it 
does,  Merrieless,  and  no  harm  because  it  do  run  a 
trifle  quicker." 

"Where  did  you  get  them  skates  ?"  she  demanded 
abruptly. 

Again  he  chuckled.  "Found  'em,"  he  said.  "And 
borrowed  the  loan  o'  usage  for  her  ladyship,  your 
mistress." 

"You'll  get  into  trouble  if  you  don't  take  care. 
The  young  master  be  just  gone  to  get  some  o'  the 
same." 

"I  can  wait,"  said  the  ancient  man,  complacently. 
"There'll  maybe  come  need  o'  me  for  the  screw- 
work  o'  her  ladyship's  foot" — his  eyes  sought  the 


108  A   JILT'S   JOURNAL. 

ground — "seein'  as  how  machines  o'  this  sort  don't 
take  nat'ral  to  the  ways  o'  balance." 

"Well,  I  can  see  Mr.  Herivale  and  his  sisters 
comin'  along  now,"  said  Merry.  "And  you'll  have 
to  explain  how  you  came  by  those  skates.  Such 
foolishness!  For  you  can't  put  them  on  for  my 
young  lady,  and  even  if  you  could,  she  wouldn't 
know  the  use  o'  them  or  how  to  stand." 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  yourself,  Merry?"  I 
asked  abruptly. 

"Oh,  if  you  won't  take  it  as  a  liberty,  miss,  I  was 
goin'  for  a  turn  with  Gregory.  He's  found  me  a 
pair  o'  skates,  and  we'll  keep  out  o'  the  way  o'  the 
gentry,  miss." 

"But  can  you  skate?"  I  asked. 

"Yes,  miss,  since  I  was  a  child.  Though  'tisn't 
often  I  have  the  chance,  bein'  kept  close  in  service, 
but  a  short  time  o'  practice  gives  it  back  again." 

"I'm  very  glad,"  I  said  heartily;  "for  you  can 
keep  yourself  warm  and  have  some  fun  on  your  own 
account." 

"Hear  that  now !"  exclaimed  the  old  man. 
"There's  kindliness  o'  spirit !  Take  it  to  heart, 
lass,"  he  added,  fixing  a  warning  glance  on  Merrie- 
less,  "and  offer  your  thanksgiving  for  such  a  sweet, 
unparticular  mistress.  You  don't  pick  'em  up  none 
too  often  these  parts !" 


CHAPTER  XL 

ADAM  HERIVALE  brought  his  sisters  to  me  for 
introduction. 

Pleasant,  bright-faced  country  girls  of  twenty 
and  twenty-four  years  of  age.  The  borrowing  of 
the  skates  was  explained  and  excused,  and  they  were 
duly  fixed,  and  I  tottered  forth,  supported  by 
Adam's  strong  arm. 

I  managed  to  stand  and  move  about  quicker  than 
I  had  anticipated,  but  my  instructor  was  very  pains- 
taking, and  very  patient,  and,  fortunately,  I  was 
lithe  and  active,  and  had  no  sort  of  mauvaise  honte 
whatever.  By  the  time  the  Quinton  Court  party 
arrived  I  could  glide  along  quite  respectably,  hold- 
ing Adam's  hand. 

He  looked  somewhat  disconcerted  as  the  wag- 
onettes drove  up,  and  a  flock  of  chattering,  gaily- 
dressed  women  got  out  with  their  attendant 
cavaliers. 

"I  suppose  you'll  join  them?"  he  said,  bringing 
me  to  a  standstill  on  our  quiet  bit  of  the  broad  sheet 
of  ice. 

"Indeed  I  won't,"  I  answered.  "I  want  to  learn 
to  skate,  not  idle  my  time  away  with  these  people." 

He  gave  me  a  quick  glance.  "Some  of  the  gen- 
tlemen would  doubtless  be  glad  enough  to  take  my 
place,"  he  observed. 

"Oh,"  I  said  huffily,  "if  you're  tired  and  bored 
pray  say  so.  I  forgot  I  was  keeping  you  from  your 
own  share  of  enjoyment." 

107 


108  A  JILT'S   JOURNAL. 

He  readjusted  the  hand  I  had  pettishly  snatched 
from  his  arm. 

"My  enjoyment,"  he  said,  "can  never  exceed  the 
present  moment,  or  the  honor  you  are  doing  me.  It 
was  of  yourself  I  thought." 

"Don't  trouble  about  me,"  I  said  carelessly.  "I'm 
perfectly  happy." 

I  had  no  need  to  ask  whether  he  shared  the  feel- 
ing. His  face  spoke  for  him. 

"There  is  a  quieter  bit  up  yonder,"  he  said  pres- 
ently, as  dots  of  scarlet  and  blue,  and  sealskin  and 
sable,  began  to  flit  and  skim  over  the  polished 
surface. 

"Up  yonder"  was  a  divergence  or  dip  of  the 
pond,  fed  by  some  minor  stream.  A  narrow  slip, 
hard-frozen  like  the  rest,  beneath  leafless  alders. 

He  guided  me  there  even  as  he  spoke.  One  or 
two  of  the  Court  party  flashed  by  us  as  we  slowly 
moved.  No  one  seemed  to  recognize  me,  however. 
The  high  collar  of  my  cloth  jacket  came  over  my 
ears  and  round  my  face,  the  close-fitting  toque  left 
little  of  my  audacious  hair  visible.  I  was  glad  when 
we  reached  the  stream  and  were  moving  to  and  fro, 
he  giving  me  less  and  less  of  his  aid,  I  growing 
confident  and  surer  of  balance  as  the  time  passed. 

We  spoke  very  little,  but  I  think  he  was  in  a  mood 
of  serene  content. 

"You  make  an  excellent  master,"  I  said,  after  a 
pause  of  silence. 

"And  you  a  most  creditable  pupil,"  he  answered. 
"I  want  you  to  try  by  yourself  now.  Don't  be 
afraid.  I  shall  keep  quite  close,  if  you  should  fall. 
I  don't  think  you  will.  You've  got  your  balance." 

I  tried,  and  being  absolutely  indifferent  to  slips 
and  jerks  and  the  usual  accomrjaniment  of  any  new 


rA  JILT'S   JOURNAL.  109 

physical  exercise,  I  had  the  gratification  of  being 
able  to  make  some  progress.  It  was  very  far  from 
being  that  "swallow  flight"  and  embodiment  of 
grace  described  in  books,  but  it  was  promising,  and 
I  began  to  feel  my  feet  more  under  the  control  of 
my  will  than  I  had  been  of  theirs. 

"You  must  be  tired,"  said  Adam  at  last.  "Let 
us  go  back  now  and  I  will  take  you  to  the  house  for 
luncheon.  There's  always  a  meal  ready  these  times. 
The  grand  folk  mostly  bring  their  own  things,  but 
mother  sends  them  tea,  or  soup,  or  ale  if  they  want 
it.  I  promised  for  you  that  you'd  come  in  and  see 
my  people." 

I  thought  of  the  professor's  words,  "A  good  old 
yeoman  family,"  and  concluded  it  would  be  interest- 
ing to  make  their  acquaintance. 

I  sat  down  on  the  bank,  and  he  unfastened  my 
skates.  Just  then  I  heard  a  gay  voice  hailing  me 
by  name. 

"Paula!"  it  cried,  "Paula  Trent?" 

I  looked  ug  and  saw  Lady  Brancepeth  hovering 
near  us. 

"So  you  are  here,"  she  said,  as  she  glided  swiftly 
across  the  dividing  space.  "I  thought  you  would 
be.  Where  have  you  hidden  yourself?" 

"I've  been  having  my  first  lesson  in  skating. 
This,"  I  explained,  blushing  stupidly,  "is  Mr.  Adam 
Herivale  of  the  farm  there." 

Her  eyes  swept  over  his  broad  shoulders  and  stal- 
wart figure,  then  rested  a  moment  on  his  face,  as  he 
lifted  his  cap. 

"I  think  we  have  met  before,  or  at  least  I've  seen 
you — riding,  wasn't  it  ?" 

I  caught  an  odd  flash  in  his  eyes,  but  I  was  igno- 
rant of  its  meaning. 


110  A   JILT'S   JOURNAL. 

"Yes,"  he  said ;  "the  day  you  lost  your  whip." 

"Of  course !  I  thought  I  remembered  your  face. 
Well,  Paula,  how  did  you  get  on?" 

"Not  very  well,  I'm  afraid,"  I  said,  rising  to  my 
feet,  and  feeling  numbed  and  dazed  after  the  skates 
had  been  removed.  "But  it's  lovely.  I  hope  I  shall 
soon  learn." 

"Are  you  going  home?"  she  asked. 

"Oh,  no!  I  shall  stay  here  all  day.  I've  been 
invited  to  lunch,"  I  added,  laughing. 

"What! — in  the  farmhouse?  How  charming! 
Mr.  Herivale,  couldn't  your  hospitality  extend  itself 
a  little  further?  I'm  absolutely  starving." 

"I  should  be  only  too  honored,"  he  answered 
somewhat  stiffly.  "But  I  thought  your  party  were 
always  provided " 

"With  luncheon  baskets?  So  we  are.  I'm  not 
going  to  inflict  you  with  any  others  of  the  party. 
I'll  chaperon  Paula,  and  see  your  famous  old  house 
at  the  same  time.  I've  heard  something  of  its 
history." 

He  made  no  remark.  I  fancied  he  was  somewhat 
discourteous  to  this  lovely  butterfly,  but  put  it  down 
to  bashfulness.  She  asked  him  to  take  off  her 
skates,  and  I  thought  such  feet  and  ankles  might 
have  made  a  conquest  of  any  male  heart.  She  chat- 
tered away  to  me  much  as  she  had  done  on  the 
castle  hill,  but  an  even  greater  sense  of  the  incon- 
gruity of  the  world  with  these  primitive  scenes  came 
over  me,  and  I  felt  cross  at  its  intrusion.  As  for 
Adam,  he  gave  only  curt  monosyllables  to  her  airy 
banter. 

We  found  luncheon  awaiting  us  in  a  lovely  old 
room,  wainscoted  with  oak,  and  having  a  huge  fire 
of  blazing  logs  to  give  kindly  welcome,  from  a  great 


A  JILT'S   JOURNAL.  Ill 

open  fireplace.  Steaming  soup  was  brought  in  by  a 
neat  serving-maid.  The  table  was  liberally  spread 
with  cold  joints,  turkey,  ham  and  meat  pies. 

Lady  Brancepeth  babbled  delight.  It  was  all  so 
homely  and  unconventional.  She  ate  so  daintily, 
with  such  airy  grace  of  finger  touches,  and  move- 
ments of  head  or  lips,  that  I  watched  her  with  a 
sort  of  fascination.  I  wondered  if  Adam  felt  the 
same. 

It  was  impossible  to  tell  from  his  face.  It  had 
grown  expressionless,  and  his  words,  though  studi- 
ously polite,  were  curt  as  tongue  could  make  them. 

Lady  Brancepeth  demanded  the  history  of  the 
farm,  and  he  gave  it  her  in  the  same  formal  fashion. 
He  was  a  revelation  to  me  in  this  new  attitude  of 
stiffness,  and  I  longed  to  ask  its  meaning.  From 
time  to  time  his  eyes  rested  uneasily  upon  me,  and 
then  turned  to  the  door  as  if  expecting  someone  to 
enter. 

"I  hoped  I  should  see  your  father  and  mother,"  I 
said  at  last. 

"They  seldom  intrude  on  company,"  he  an- 
swered. "But  if  you  wish  it,  Miss  Trent,  my 
mother  would  be  very  pleased  to  make  your  ac- 
quaintance. She  has  known  of  you  for  some  time. 
I  think  your  uncle  mentioned  your  coming  home  for 
good." 

I  opened  my  eyes  wide.     "Oh,  did  he?    I  wonder 

why " 

Then  I  crimsoned  to  the  temples,  conscious  of  a 
foolish  speech. 

"When  you  have  finished  your  luncheon,"  con- 
tinued Adam,  "I  will  show  you  over  some  of  the  old 
rooms,  and  my  mother's  parlor.  She  sits  there  a 
great  deal.  Her  health  is  not  good,  and  my  father 


112  A  JILT'S   JOURNAL. 

is  careful  of  her.  They  are  truly  fond  of  one  an- 
other— my  father  and  mother,"  he  went  on  more 
rapidly.  "  'Twas  a  love  match  at  first  and  'twill 
be  that  to  the  last.  There's  no  one  in  the  world  for 
him  like  'wife.'  He  never  calls  her  aught  but 
that." 

He  looked  suddenly  straight  at  the  lovely  face 
and  lifted,  insolent  eyes  of  the  fashionable  lady  at 
his  board. 

"It  sounds  foolish,  I  suppose,  to  your  ladyship. 
But  we  commoner  folks  have  very  simple  ways,  and 
love  and  duty  mean  a  great  deal  to  us." 

She  laughed  with  evident  amusement. 

"So  I  have  heard;  but  pray,  my  dear  man,  do  not 
call  a  family  like  yours  'common  folk.'  You  are  of 
the  stuff  that  made  England  what  it  is.  I  wish  a 
little  of  your  blood  could  be  infused  into  our  effete 
nobility.  We  would  be  the  gainers,  I  assure  you. 
If  it  carried  a  few  of  your  primitive  virtues  with  it 
so  much  the  better.  The  word  'wife,'  as  you  said 
it,  has  a  delicious,  old-fashioned  flavor  about  it  that 
almost  makes  one  believe  in  Lubin  and  Chloe,  and 
eternal  constancy.  I  wonder  if  you — take  after 
your  father?" 

That  little  pause  on  the  pronoun  and  the  half- 
mocking,  half -amused  expression  of  those  lovely 
turquoise  eyes  gave  the  question  a  second  meaning. 

He  colored  in  an  embarrassed,  stupid  fashion 
that  made  me  angry  with  him.  Why  couldn't  he 
speak  to  this  woman  as  he  spoke  to  me? 

"I  hope  I  shall  never  do  worse,"  he  said  at  last. 

And  again  she  laughed,  that  cold,  little  laugh  I 
was  learning  to  know. 

"You  look  as  if  you  held  all  the  primitive  vir- 
tues," she  said.  "Love  and  constancy  are  part  of 


A   JILT'S   JOUKNAL.  113 

them.  I  foresee  a  second  edition  of  Darby  and 
Joan  when  it  comes  to  your  turn  to  make  of  life  a 
pastoral  idyl." 

She  rose  from  the  table.  At  the  same  moment 
some  more  people  entered,  ushered  in  by  the  fine  old 
white-haired  man  I  had  seen  in  church,  and  whose 
likeness  proclaimed  his  relationship  to  Adam.  He 
seated  his  guests  and  shook  hands  with  me,  and 
then  bustled  about,  waiting  on  them  and  carving, 
and  pressing  hospitality  in  a  manner  that  was  de- 
lightful, because  it  was  so  evidently  the  outcome  of 
genuine  feeling. 

Adam  approached  me  under  cover  of  the  con- 
fusion. 

"If  you  would  come  away,  Miss  Trent,  I  should 
like  to  introduce  you  to  my  mother." 

I  glanced  at  him  deprecatingly.  "What  of  Lady 
Brancepeth  ?" 

"We  do  not  want  her,  I  fancy.  Surely  she  will 
go  back  to  her  own  friends." 

"She  will  expect  you  to  escort  her." 

He  resumed  the  old  air  of  courteous  indifference. 
"I  will  do  so  after  I  have  left  you  in  the  parlor." 

"Very  well,"  I  said,  "I'll  tell  her  that." 

But  when  I  had  told  her  I  was  surprised  at  the 
sudden  anger  in  her  face. 

"Of  course  you  can  do  as  you  please,"  she  said. 
"But  I  expect  your  farmer  friend  to  take  me  back  to 
the  pond  first." 

"Can't  you  find  your  way?"  I  asked. 

"I  am  not  as  at  home  among  pig-styes  and  cow- 
sheds as  you  seem  to  be,"  she  said  sharply. 

I  was  puzzled  at  her  tone  and  apparent  ill-humor. 
She  had  been  so  radiant  and  smiling  a  short  time 
before. 


114  A   JILT'S   JOUKNAU 

"I  saw  no  pig-styes.  You  cross  that  paved  walk, 
and  then  go  through  the  garden." 

"Thank  you  for  troubling  to  explain,  but  I've  no 
doubt  Colin  will  be  my  guide  when  you  can  spare 
him." 

"Colin?"  I  said  stupidly,  and  then,  understand- 
ing, grew  scarlet  with  sudden  shame  and  indig- 
nation. 

"One  name  is  as  good  as  another — in  Arcadia," 
she  said,  with  her  little,  chill  smile.  "And  I  have  a 
fancy  for  Colin." 

I  moved  away. 

Adam  Herivale  was  standing  in  the  same  place. 

"I  think  I  will  not  see  your  mother  to-day,"  I 
said.  "Lady  Brancepeth  is  eager  to  get  back  to  the 
pond,  and  indeed  so  am  I." 

There  was  something  proud  and  hurt,  yet  in- 
finitely gentle,  in  those  surprised  eyes  of  his,  but  he 
only  said,  "As  you  wish,  Miss  Trent.  Of  course  I 
am  at  your  service." 

I  remembered  the  first  time  he  had  used  those 
words,  and  had  the  grace  to  feel  a  little  ashamed  of 
myself.  But  it  was  too  late  to  retract.  I  left  the 
room,  and  heard  Lady  Brancepeth's  clear  voice  be- 
hind me. 

"I'll  take  your  pupil  off  your  hands,"  she  was 
saying.  "It  is  too  bad  to  spoil  your  sport,  and  I 
think  a  girl  gets  on  better  skating  with  one  of  her 
own  sex." 

What  he  answered  I  could  not  hear,  but  when  we 
were  once  more  at  the  pond  he  brought  my  skates 
and  put  them  on,  and  then,  lifting  his  cap,  left  me 
with  Lady  Brancepeth. 

Of  course  I  could  not  get  on  at  all,  and  I  felt  she 
took  a  malicious  pleasure  in  making  me  look  awk- 


A   JILT'S   JOURNAL.  115 

ward.  Finally  I  lost  my  temper.  "I  wish  you'd 
leave  me  to  myself,"  I  said.  "I  believe  I'd  do  a 
great  deal  better  alone." 

"Poor  little  maid!"  she  said  mockingly.  "And 
is  it  Colin  she  wants?" 

I  snatched  my  hand  angrily  from  her  own. 

"What  makes  you  torment  me  so  ?"  I  asked  fool- 
ishly. "You've  quite  spoilt  my  day." 

She  turned  her  brilliant  eyes  on  my  angry  face 
and  laughed. 

"You  baby !"  she  said.  "Do  you  know  no  better 
than  to  give  yourself  away  like  that — 'spoilt  your 
day'  because  I  took  you  away  from  a  farm  lout  who, 
to  my  thinking,  is  decidedly  presumptuous.  Pray 
forgive  me  for  not  appreciating  your  bucolic  tastes. 
Shall  I  go  after  him  and  bring  him  back?" 

Again  I  flushed  scarlet ;  the  tears  of  mortification 
and  pride  rushed  to  my  eyes. 

"When  you  are  a  little  older,"  went  on  my  tor- 
mentor, "you'll  know  better  than  to  display  prefer- 
ences so  openly.  Colin  is  very  handsome,  I  grant, 
but  scarcely  a  desirable  parti  for  Professor  Trent's 
niece.  I've  tried  to  prevent  you  from  making  your- 
self remarkable.  You  ought  to  be  grateful,  not 
angry.  Your  worldly  experience  is  as  yet  nil.  Be 
glad  that  anyone  is  interested  enough  in  you  to 
show  you  the  ropes  to  handle,  and  the  way  to  handle 
them.  There  is  no  mistake  in  life  so  disastrous  as 
a  false  step  on  the  threshold.  I  must  call  and  have 
a  chat  with  the  professor  about  you,  my  dear. 
Meanwhile  adieu.  I'm  going  to  catch  up — Colin. 
Shall  I  tell  him  you  are  disconsolate?" 

She  skimmed  off,  graceful  as  a  swallow,  her  airy 
laugh  ringing  on  the  air,  where  it  seemed  the  sting 
of  her  echoing  words  still  lingered. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

I  POTTERED  about  in  a  blundering,  aimless  fash- 
ion when  left  to  myself. 

I  was  conscious  of  intense  humiliation  and  in- 
tense anger.  Everyone  else  seemed  to  be  flitting 
about  in  the  enjoyment  of  various  stages  of  ability, 
but  I  felt  a  fool.  No  one  offered  me  a  helping  hand, 
and  I  was  in  mortal  terror  of  falling.  This  was 
altogether  a  different  experience  from  my  previous 
ventures,  supported  by  Adam  Herivale's  strong  arm 
and  skilful  aid  to  balance. 

"Hullo!"  said  a  voice  suddenly,  so  close  that  I 
started  and  would  have  fallen  but  for  a  hand  that 
caught  my  arm. 

"Near  a  cropper  that  time.  Thought  I  remem- 
bered you.  Don't  seem  enjoying  yourself.  Let  me 
lend  a  hand — I'll  get  you  along." 

It  was  Lord  "Bobby"  who  spoke,  and  for  a  mo- 
ment the  relief  of  a  friendly  voice  was  so  welcome 
that  I  cared  very  little  who  was  the  speaker. 

"Oh,  ivill  you?"  I  said  eagerly.  "This  is  the 
first  time  I've  ever  tried  to  skate,  and  I'm  so  stupid." 

He  took  both  hands  crossways  and  we  moved 
over  the  ice  together. 

"Wasn't  there  anyone  to  teach  you?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,  but  he's  gone." 

"Oh,  must  have  been  a  damned  ass !  I  —  beg 
your  pardon — slipped  out.  But  why  did  he  go  till 
you'd  found  your  legs?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  I  said  pettishly.     "I  do  wish 

116 


A   JILT'S  JOURNAL.  117 

I  could  do  it.  It  seems  so  easy,  and  when  anyone 
helps  me  I  feel  all  right,  but  the  instant  I  try  by 
myself  I  can't  even  slide  forward." 

He  chuckled.  "Yes,  'tis  a  shaky  sort  of  feeling 
till  you  get  used  to  it.  But  you'll  soon  be  all  right. 
When  we  get  out  of  the  ruck  you  must  try  one 
hand." 

"You're  awfully  kind  to  help  me,"  I  said  pres- 
ently. 

"Not  a  bit.  Deuced  pretty  girl — oughtn't  to 
want  for  help,  you  know." 

"Your  wife,"  I  said,  "skates  beautifully.  Do 
you  see  her  over  there  doing  figures  ?" 

"Oh,  she's  Ai  at  that — runs  'em  up,  too!  No 
paying,  though.  Don't  suit  her  book." 

This  being  Greek  to  me,  I  made  no  response. 

"We  drive  separate  teams,  you  know.  Most  peo- 
ple do.  Ask  no  questions,  told  no  lies;  that  sort. 
How  surprised  you  look !  Bet  there  isn't  a  girl  in 
London  don't  know  what  that  means.  Tries  it  on, 
too,  on  her  own,  when  her  time  comes.  The  women 
all  said  what  a  jolly  innocent  you  were  when  you 
left  the  other  day.  By  the  way,  Lorry  (that's  my 
wife)  got  hold  of  that  book  you  left  behind  and 
read  us  out  some  eye-openers.  Demn'd  clever  it 
was.  If  that's  your  sort  o'  reading  you  oughtn't  to 
be  so  green." 

I  stopped — my  face  one  burning  flush  of  anger. 

"That  was  my  mother's  book.  She  wrote  it. 
I'm  sure  there's  nothing  wrong  in  it." 

His  pale,  watery  eyes  met  mine  with  unmistak- 
able surprise.  "Wrong!  Who  said  it  was  wrong? 
D d  clever,  that's  all." 

"You  spoke  of  it  as  if  it  had  quite  another  mean- 
ing to — to  what  it  seems  to  me  to  have !" 


118  A  JILT'S   JOURNAL. 

"Didn't  mean  that — assure  you.  Jolly  queer 
girl  you  are,  conscience  and  all  that,  I  suppose. 
Take  my  tip — throw  it  aside  and  face  the  world  on 
your  own.  It  hates  goody-goodies.  You're  awfully 
fetching,  but  you'll  never  get  on  till  you've  thrown 
all  that  moral  ballast  overboard  and  taken  life  for 
no  better  than  it  is!" 

I  was  speechless  from  indignation,  and  he  guided 
me  on  and  up  to  the  spot  where  his  wife  was  doing 
the  outside  edge  and  other  mysterious  devices, 
watched  by  a  crowd  of  admirers. 

She  saw  me  with  her  husband  and  paused  a  mo- 
ment to  laugh. 

"Why,  Bobby,"  she  said,  "what's  this?  A  new 
line?" 

He  grinned.  "Shame  to  let  Miss  Trent  stumble 
about  and  no  one  to  lend  her  a  hand.  Besides — 
good  example." 

Her  eyes  flashed.  "You  never  seem  to  want  for 
male  escort,  Paula,"  she  said.  "It's  odd  how  pleas- 
ant boredom  can  be  made  if  one  has  —  long  eye- 
lashes." 

"Come  along,  Paula,"  said  Lord  Brancepeth, 
audaciously.  "Don't  mind  her;  she's  in  a  wax 
about  something.  Let's  have  another  try." 

He  bore  me  off,  whether  I  would  or  no;  but  my 
face  was  tingling,  and  the  smart  of  hot,  indignant 
tears  lay  behind  those  lashes  that  Lady  Brancepeth 
had  alluded  to  so  mockingly. 

When  self-control  returned,  I  asked  him  to  take 
me  back  to  the  chairs.  I  was  tired  and  wanted  my 
skates  off.  I  glanced  about  for  Adam,  but  he 
seemed  to  have  disappeared.  I  caught  sight  of  Mer- 
rieless,  however,  and  signaled  her  to  accompany  me. 

"What's  made  you  freeze  up  so  sudden?"  asked 


A   JILT'S   JOURNAL.  Ill) 

Lord  Brancepeth,  as  we  neared  the  bank.  "Not  a 
word  but  'yes'  or  'no.'  Surely  you  don't  mind 
what  Lorry  said.  She's  got  a  nasty  sting  to  her 
tongue,  but,  bless  you,  no  one  cares  for  that.  I 
expect  she's  envying  the  color  of  your  hair,  if  the 
truth  were  known.  It's  the  shade  every  smart 
woman's  mad  about.  But  I  defy  all  the  hair  stuffs 
in  Christendom  to  do  what  Nature's  done  for  you !" 

"As  I'm  never  likely  to  go  into  your  smart  world, 
Lord  Brancepeth,  there's  not  much  advantage  in 
having  the  fashionable  shade  of  hair,"  I  said.  "And 
I'm  sure  your  wife  is  lovely  enough,  and  admired 
enough,  to  envy  no  one." 

"Oh,  she's  no  angel,"  he  said,  "and,  by  Jove !  she 
makes  me  sing  small.  Life  ain't  all  skittles,  my 
dear,  take  my  word.  On  the  whole  I  think  you 
quiet  country  folk  get  the  best  of  it.  No  debts,  no 
show,  no  worries.  We're  sponged  on,  spied  on,  im- 
posed on  every  way.  Got  to  keep  up  in  the  race  or 
be  knocked  under.  All  we  do — known.  All  we 
spend,  only  good  to  other  people ;  half  ruined  by  ex- 
travagances, that  aren't  a  ha'porth  o'  use  to  our- 
selves. Afraid  of  our  servants,  our  tradespeople; 
all  the  beggarly,  rotten  pack  who  spy  out  our  secrets 
and  fatten  on  our  incomes.  Lord!  how  sick  I  get 
of  it  all  sometimes." 

"Then  why  do  it?"  I  asked. 

His  laugh  rang  harshly  on  the  frosty  air. 

"Why?  Because  we're  fools.  Because  we  must 
be  in  the  swing.  Because  it's  bred  in  our  bones. 
Because  we're  like  sheep  and  must  follow  on  one  an- 
other's heels !  Oh !  there's  no  end  to  the  reasons 
once  one  starts  on  'em.  Why — even  you,  country 
innocent  as  you  are,  if  you  married  into  the  set  and 
went  through  a  season,  would  turn  out  just  like  the 


120  A   JILT'S   JOURNAL. 

others.  You  must.  There's  no  help  for  it.  It's 
been  set  a-goin'  and  it'll  go  as  long  as  vice  and  gold 
and  vanity  are  in  the  world.  How  Lorry  would 
laugh  if  she  heard  me  talk  —  and  well  she  might. 
I'm  one  of  the  worst  o'  the  lot,  and  I've  never  cared 
who  knew  it  or  what  was  said  of  it.  Oh,  here  we 
are.  What  a  rum  old  card!  Who  the  deuce  is 
he?" 

The  ancient  was  standing  guard  over  a  chair. 
He  must  have  seen  me  coming  up,  and  was  prepar- 
ing to  remove  the  skates. 

"That's  one  of  our  celebrities,"  I  said,  laughing. 
"He's  on  the  farm,  and  his  years  number  fourscore 
and — something." 

"Jove!  Fancy  living  to  that.  Jolly  sick  he 
must  be  of  it.  Shall  I  take  off  your  skates  for 
you?" 

"I  won't  trouble  you,"  I  answered.  "The  old 
man  can  do  it,  and  here  is  my  maid  also.  I'm  very 
much  obliged  to  you,  Lord  Brancepeth,  for  your 
kindness — and,"  I  added,  "your  valuable  informa- 
tion. Perhaps  some  day  I  may  need  it." 

"I  hope  to  God  you  won't,"  he  said  earnestly. 
"Well,  if  I  can't  do  anything  more,  good-by." 

I  stepped  up  on  the  bank  and  seated  myself. 

The  ancient  Gregory  became  garrulous,  and  was 
just  about  to  divest  me  of  my  skates  when  Adam 
Herivale  flashed  into  sight  and  bore  down. 

"Let  me  do  that,"  he  urged. 

In  some  surprise  I  consented. 

"How  did  you  get  on?" 

"Oh,  very  badly.     It  seemed  no  use  trying." 

"You  really  should  not  leave  off  until  you  have 
mastered  it,"  he  said.  "Unless,  of  course,  you're 
tired." 


A   JILT'S   JOURNAL.  121 

I  was  not  tired,  but  I  had  lost  all  inclination  to  go 
on  the  pond  again. 

"If  you  would  take  me  in  to  see  your  mother 
now?"  I  said  hesitatingly. 

He  looked  up  quickly  and  his  face  flushed  with 
emotion.  "Do  you  mean  it?"  he  said  huskily.  "I 
thought  all  these  grand  people  had  made  you 
ashamed?" 

"What  nonsense!  Pray  don't  think  such  a 
thing." 

"I  should  be  very  proud,  very  happy,"  he  went 
on,  as  he  loosened  the  straps.  "I  wish  you'd  stay  a 
bit  longer.  We  could  give  you  tea,  and  then  I'll 
take  you  on  again  if  you'll  let  me.  And  we'll  be 
skating  by  torchlight.  That's  a  pretty  sight. 
You'd  like  to  see  it?" 

I  hesitated.  "My  uncle,"  I  said  "might  be 
uneasy " 

"Oh,  if  that's  all,  one  of  the  farm  boys  could  take 
a  message." 

My  face  cleared.  I  did  so  want  to  be  able  to 
skate. 

"If  you're  sure  it's  no  trouble,"  I  began. 

"I  wish  you  wouldn't  keep  on  saying  that.  I'm 
a  plain,  homely  man,  and  what  I  say  I  mean.  If 
you've  forgotten  that  night  on  the  ruins,  I  haven't !" 

I  ignored  any  other  meaning  than  that  I  chose  to 
give  his  speech.  "Very  well,"  I  said,  "I'll  stay." 

As  Merrieless  came  up  at  the  same  moment  I  told 
her  my  intention,  and  saw  from  her  radiant  face 
that  it  suited  well  enough  with  her  inclinations. 
Then  Adam  slung  my  skates  over  his  arm  and  we 
went  back  to  the  farmhouse. 

He  led  me  into  the  beautiful  old  kitchen,  and  then 
across  a  stone  passage  into  a  wide  room  quaintly 


122  A   JILT'S   JOURNAL. 

but  comfortably  furnished,  and  having  a  large  bow 
window  looking  into  the  old-fashioned  garden. 
The  fireplace  was  wide  and  open  like  that  in  the 
room  where  luncheon  had  been  spread. 

Seated  on  a  carved  oak  settle,  beside  the  blazing 
logs,  was  a  woman.  White-haired,  dark-eyed,  with 
a  sweet,  placid  face  —  a  face  that  bore  some  dim 
likeness  to  Adam's — enough  to  show  that  she  was 
mother  to  this  stalwart,  handsome  man,  even  had 
not  the  soft  welcome  of  love  looked  out  so  uncon- 
sciously from  her  uplifted  eyes. 

"Mother,"  he  said  simply,  "I've  brought  Miss 
Trent  to  see  you." 

She  rose  and  came  to  meet  me,  her  hand  out- 
stretched. "I  am  very  pleased,"  she  said,  in  a  soft, 
gentle-pitched  voice.  "Very  pleased.  I  know  your 
uncle,  my  dear.  He  has  sometimes  honored  us  with 
his  company.  Come  and  sit  by  the  fire,  and  tell  me 
how  you  like  Scarffe." 

Adam  slipped  away  and  left  us  together.  I  felt 
so  at  home,  so  charmed  with  her  kindly,  natural 
ways  that  I  chatted  of  all  and  everything  concerning 
my  yet  unimportant  life. 

It  is  only  now,  to-night,  in  looking  back  on  the 
interview  that  I  seem  to  realize  how  interested  she 
was,  and  how  gently  she  dealt  with  much  of  my 
foolish  boastings  and  efforts  at  importance.  Her 
great  pity  for  me  centred  in  the  fact  of  my  mother- 
lessness. 

"Men  folks  are  very  well,"  she  said ;  "but  it  needs 
a  woman  to  understand  a  girl's  nature  in  its  open- 
ing years — a  woman  who  loves  her." 

Then  all  my  foolish  babble  ceased,  and  I  grew 

silent  and  listened  to  her,  and  was  the  better  for  it. 

The  same  tranquillity  that  brooded  over  those 


A   JILT'S  JOURNAL".  123 

quiet  hills  and  held  the  quaint  old  town  in  a  charmed 
peace  seemed  to  have  found  another  resting-place 
here,  in  this  old  room,  with  this  placid,  tender 
presence. 

It  did  me  good  to  hear  her  talk.  To  hear  of  her 
youth  and  her  first  coming  to  this  dear  old  home, 
and  her  husband's  goodness  and  faithful  love,  and 
the  smooth,  unrippled  surface  of  their  wedded  lives, 
which  to  this  day  had  known  no  cross,  or  shame,  or 
division.  A  different  story  this  from  that  I  had 
heard  from  the  lips  of  a  worldly  woman ;  a  different 
standpoint  this  gentle  faith  and  honor — from  that 
where  disillusion  viewed  its  social  wrecks. 

Paula's  self-importance  shrunk  away  abased — 
Paula's  vanity,  of  whose  dawn  none  was  more  con- 
scious than  herself,  fell  suddenly  off  like  a  discarded 
garment.  Her  foolish  pride  hid  a  shamed  head  be- 
fore the  simple,  godly  honesty  of  a  peasant 
woman. 

And  Paula  sits  here  to-night  reviewing  all  the 
events  of  this  eventful  day,  and  knows  that  chief 
and  more  important  than  Lady  Brancepeth's  satires, 
or  Lord  "Bobby's"  attentions,  or  Adam  Herivale's 
kindness,  or  the  delicious  enjoyment  of  the  skating 
by  torchlight — successfully  accomplished  at  last— 
was  that  quiet  talk  in  the  old-fashioned  parlor  of 
Woodcote. 

All  or  any  of  these  things  may  be  means  to  an 
end,  may  have  a  future  bearing  on  character,  but 
for  her  own  good,  her  mental  and  moral  education, 
Paula  must  acknowledge  that  in  that  old  parlor  she 
heard  higher  wisdom,  better,  nobler  things  than  life 
had  yet  taught  her. 

As  I  write  this,  I  look  up  and  see  my  face  in  the 
glass  opposite. 


124  A   JILT'S   JOURNAL. 

Has  Paula  two  faces  ?  The  one  I  know — the  one 
I  don't. 

I  have  to  lay  down  my  pen  and  consider  this 
point. 

Something  stirs  in  me  as  the  sap  stirs  in  bough 
and  bud.  Spring's  miracle  of  wakening  life  is  not 
more  marvellous  than  the  miracle  of  wakening 
Nature.  My  mind  has  taken  an  excursion  into  new 
realms;  I  see  before  me  one  hard,  beaten  path,  but 
others  diverge  from  it  to  right  and  left,  and  the 
signal-posts  to  each  name  only  the  paths,  but  not 
their  destination.  A  strange  sense  of  bewilderment, 
of  isolation,  comes  over  me. 

What  has  touched  this  hidden  spring?  What  has 
brought  to  the  surface  of  my  own  knowledge  the 
vague  and  unspoken  possibilities  which  lie  slumber- 
ing in  my  soul  ? 

****** 

Beside  me,  close  at  hand,  lies  my  precious  book. 
A  hurried  impulse  to  dip  into  its  pages  brought 
forth  this  pearl  of  thought.  Tired  as  I  am  I  write 
it  as  footnote  to  my  own  confessions,  and  the  day's 
adventures. 

"When  the  moral  force  awakens,  question  its  rea- 
son for  so  doing.  It  is  a  slumbering  giant  whose 
disturbance  threatens  all  your  future  peace.  Hence- 
forth your  warfare  is  a  double  one.  You  are  at- 
tacked from  within  and  without.  Keep  clear  vision 
fixed  upon  one  issue;  there  is  only  one  of  impor- 
tance. The  others  are  but  side  lines,  to  lead  you 
astray,  or  leave  you  irresolute." 

Oh,  wise  writer,  why  have  you  left  me  alone  to 
clamber  as  best  I  can  the  steep  sides  of  the  hill  Diffi- 


'A1   JILT'S   JOURNAL.  125 

culty?  Why  are  you  not  here  to  aid  me  by  your 
helping  hand,  your  wonderful  wisdom  ? 

Did  you  make  of  your  life  as  perfect  and  beauti- 
ful a  thing  as  your  words  say  it  can  be  made  ?  Do 
you,  by  some  spiritual  prescience,  know  aught  of 
mine,  and  will  those  pages  guide  me  ?  Your  living 
thoughts — though  brain  and  voice  are  dumb? 

The  great,  white,  silent  world  lies  all  around  me. 
In  all  the  silent  house  I  hear  no  sound. 

I  know  now  how  lonely  I  am! 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

I  WOKE  up  to  a  world  of  dazzling  whiteness. 

Snow  had  laid  its  pure  enchantment  over  the  hills 
and  fields,  and  turned  the  castle  ruins  into  a  thing  of 
magic  beauty. 

The  sky  was  gray  and  heavy.  All  hopes  of  skat- 
ing were  at  an  end  for  that  day,  and  with  a  sigh  of 
disappointment  I  resigned  myself  to  life  indoors. 

I  awaited  the  post  eagerly.  Surely  one  of  the 
girls  might  send  me  a  decent  budget  by  this  time. 

But  the  weather  had  affected  even  postal  deliver- 
ies, and  it  was  nearly  noon  before  the  letters  arrived. 

To  my  delight  there  was  one  from  Lesley  —  a 
thing  of  many  sheets,  and  promising  joy  enough  to 
atone  for  the  disappointment  brought  by  the 
weather. 

I  read  it  by  the  drawing-room  fire. 

"You  wonderful  Paula!  How  did  you  contrive 
to  get  so  much  interest  out  of  such  a  brief  space  of 
time?  And  a  man  already  to  write  about,  and  to 
make  interesting!  I  believe  you  are  the  one  and 
only  person  who  could  answer  the  proverb  about  a 
silk  purse  and  a  sow's  ear.  You  have  the  alchemy 
of  imagination,  as  we  always  said.  Do  you  know, 
Claire  and  I  could  see  you  reading  that  book  in  the 
train,  speaking  to  that  handsome  yeoman  (don't 
fall  in  love  with  him,  my  dear),  and  feel  introduced 
to  your  grim  old  housekeeper  and  the  dear  old 
absent-minded  professor ! 

126 


'A   JILT'S   JOURNAL.  127 

"Is  that  a  compliment  ?  Take  it  how  you  please, 
but  believe  we  are  eager  for  more  news  of  your  sur- 
roundings. I  wonder  if  you  will  go  to  the  Court 
while  they  have  that  house  party?  I  almost  envy 
you  your  freedom.  I  get  lectured  from  morning 
till  night,  and  am  obliged  to  imbibe  perpetual  doses 
of  worldly  wisdom  and  be  drilled  into  the  ways  of 
society.  We  are  going  to  the  Riviera  soon.  My 
stepmother — (Lady  'Archie,'  as  everyone  calls  her) 
— and  I.  We  are  to  stay  with  some  friends  of  hers 
who  have  a  villa  at  Nice.  So,  my  dear  old  chum,  I 
don't  know  when  we  shall  meet,  unless  I  can  have 
you  for  a  week  or  two  before  the  season  begins. 
I'm  to  be  presented  at  one  of  the  March  Drawing- 
rooms.  My  dress  is  ordered  already.  In  fact,  I 
hear  so  much  and  see  so  much  of  the  bustle  and  im- 
portance of  fashionable  life  that  I  get  bewildered. 
But  I  haven't  your  trick  of  presenting  things,  my 
Paula,  so  you  must  imagine  them.  We  had  a  lot  of 
people  to  dinner  on  Christmas  Day.  Some  were 
relatives,  some  friends.  But  they  were  all  very 
grand  and  very  fashionable,  and  Claire  and  I  were 
quite  at  sea  among  them.  The  women  seem  to 
think  a  great  deal  of  dress.  Most  of  those  I  have 
met  are  on  the  wing  to  the  Riviera,  or  Rome,  or 
Cairo.  It  seems  no  more  to  them  to  flit  from  one 
place  to  another  than  to  cross  the  street.  What 
a  self-imposed  treadmill  society  appears!  Yet, 
though  I  heard  people  abuse  it,  they  all  declare  they 
must  go  on  with  the  exercise!  I  wonder  if  I  shall 
like  it  when  I  too  'am  in  the  swing'  ? 

"Dear — it's  too  horrid  not  to  be  able  to  speak  to 
you.  I  seem  to  have  hundreds  of  things  to  say,  but 
they  won't  stand  being  written  down.  However,  I 
promise  to  write  you  long  yarns  from  Nice,  and  tell 


128  'A  JILT'S   JOURNAL. 

you  all  about  the  life  there.  Lady  Archie  says  my 
great  fault  is  that  I'm  so  dreadfully  young.  I've  a 
small  step-brother  here,  but  he's  so  hemmed  in  by 
nurses  and  rules  that  I  scarcely  get  a  glimpse  of 
him.  But  he's  a  darling  cherub,  and,  of  course,  his 
father's  idol.  As  for  Lady  A. Well,  it's  im- 
possible to  say  what  she  thinks  of  him.  She  accepts 
maternity  as  another  role  she  must  play,  and  I  sup- 
pose she  plays  it  according  to  the  best  rules  of  soci- 
ety. I  wonder  what  she's  like  when  she's  really 
natural.  I'd  like  to  ask  father,  but  I  daren't.  He 
seems  always  in  a  haze  of  business  and  company 
promoting,  and  he's  director  on  goodness  knows 
how  many  boards — if  you  know  what  that  means? 
I  confess  I  don't.  And  Lady  A.  grumbles  because 
Stanhope  Gate  is  the  wrong  side  of  the  Park,  as  if 
that  can  matter  when  one  has  horses  and  carriages 
at  command. 

"Now,  my  dearest  dear,  good-by.  Keep  on  writ- 
ing. I  love  to  know  how  your  days  go  on.  Address 
here  till  you  get  my  Riviera  letter.  Your  loving 
and  devoted  old  chum,  LESLEY." 

I  put  the  letter  back  in  its  envelope  and  sat  gaz- 
ing into  the  fire.  I  had  a  budget  upstairs  ready  to 
send  off,  so  there  was  no  need  to  write  a  reply. 

I  employed  myself  in  measuring  the  distance  be- 
tween us  that  these  few  days  of  emancipation  had 
created.  It  seemed  to  show  that  life  was  a  very 
different  thing  from  books.  That  the  study  of  in- 
dividuals was  the  real  education.  That  mind  re- 
acted upon  mind,  and  nature  magnetized,  repelled, 
or  attracted  nature.  I  thought  of  Lesley  as  I  had 
known  her  —  my  girl  friend  and  confidante.  All 
that  was  fresh  and  simple  and  natural  was,  in  her 


A   JILT'S   JOURNAL.  129 

new  life,  decreed  foolish.  That  lovely  youth,  so 
eager,  so  pure,  so  unabashed,  was  to  be  put  in  lead- 
ing strings,  and  dragged  hither  and  thither  at  the 
bidding  of  worldly  wisdom. 

I  pictured  her  among  such  women  as  Lady 
Brancepeth,  such  men  as  "Bobby."  I  did  not  like 
the  picture  at  all.  But  I  consoled  myself  by  think- 
ing that  all  the  men  and  women  in  the  fashionable 
world  could  not  be  like  those  specimens,  though  they 
were  well  born  and  well  connected,  and  might  be 
Duke  and  Duchess  of  Dorchester  one  day.  From 
the  "Lorely,"  with  her  fascination,  her  insolence, 
her  curious  recklessness  as  to  what  she  said  or  did, 
my  thoughts  turned  to  Captain  Jim.  He  had 
seemed  her  special  property;  she  had  bitterly  re- 
sented his  attentions  to  myself.  Why?  What 
business  had  a  married  woman  to  exact  the  homage 
of  any  other  man?  Why  couldn't  she  be  content 
with  the  husband  she  had  won?  Was  it  vanity  or 
wickedness  that  drove  her  from  the  obligations 
of  duty  and  decency?  I  could  only  surmise  —  as 
yet. 

When  I  grew  tired  of  my  thoughts  I  went  over 
to  the  window,  and  stood  watching  the  snow  which 
was  falling  thickly.  I  thought  dismally  of  the  pros- 
pect of  being  shut  indoors,  and  wondered  what  oc- 
cupation I  could  find. 

I  could  do  nothing  more  to  the  room,  and  again  I 
felt  the  miss  of  a  piano.  That  set  me  thinking  as 
to  how  I  should  get  one.  Such  a  thing  as  a  musical 
or  piano  warehouse  did  not  exist  in  Scarffe.  The 
next  town  of  any  importance  was  Wareham.  But  I 
could  only  get  there  by  train,  and  must  wait  for  a 
change  in  the  weather. 

I  began  to  wish  the  professor  would  not  shut 


130  A   JILT'S   JOURNAL. 

himself  up  so  persistently  in  his  study.      I  should 
have  loved  to  talk  to  him. 

From  the  professor  to  my  mother,  from  my 
mother  to  her  book,  was  a  perfectly  natural  sequence 
of  thought.  I  had  not  half  read  the  book.  I  re- 
solved to  fetch  it  and  give  the  rest  of  the  day  to  its 

perusal. 

****** 

I  brought  Fenella  downstairs  and  began  the  sixth 
chapter  of  her  confessions.  I  had  an  odd  fancy 
that  I  should  get  at  the  individuality  of  the  author 
by  studying  the  book.  The  speeches  put  into  the 
mouths  of  the  characters  must  surely  be  the  things 
she  would  have  said  herself  —  outcome  of  the 
thoughts  she  had  thought.  How,  otherwise,  would 
they  have  seemed  so  natural?  Yet  there  was  an 
occasional  refutation  of  this  theory  in  the  self-mock- 
ery of  some  words.  And  Fenella,  whoever  she  was 
meant  to  represent,  was  eminently  heartless.  To 
experiment  with  every  nature  she  met  seemed  an 
absolute  necessity.  Then  when  she  had  learnt  their 
depths  or  shallows,  their  capacity  or  inferiority,  she 
would  cast  them  aside.  She  could  make  herself  so 
interesting,  could  seem  to  feel  so  deeply,  that  she 
deceived  others  into  believing  her  the  reality  she 
appeared. 

One  man  alone  had  had  the  courage  to  tell  her 
his  opinion,  to  strip  her  bare  of  all  the  flimsy  pre- 
tences and  coquetries  that  veiled  what  was  really 
cold-heartedness.  "You  want  to  be  loved,"  he  said, 
"yet  you've  none  to  give.  Your  vanity  has  to  feed 
on  something.  It  matters  nothing  to  you  if  that 
something  be  a  man's  very  life.  Go  your  way — I'll 
have  none  of  you.  You're  naught  but  a  jilt !" 

Of  course  Fenella  was  indignant.     Of  course  she 


A   JILT'S   JOURNAL.  131 

moralized  and  theorized,  and  vindicated  herself  to 
herself.  She  hated  the  man  for  using  that  ugly 
word.  She  threw  cold  insult  in  his  face.  She  for- 
bade him  ever  to  seek,  or  speak  to  her  again. 

But  it  seemed  to  me  that  he,  of  all  the  men  who 
loved  her,  was  the  only  one  for  whom  she  really 
cared.  He  was  not  a  gentleman  in  the  accepted 
term.  He  did  not  move  in  the  society  she  fre- 
quented. He  was  lowly  born,  but  had  raised  him- 
self to  an  accepted  station  by  reason  of  wonderful 
inventive  gifts.  She  appreciated  her  power  over  a 
nature  that  had  hitherto  been  cold  to  feminine 
charm,  but  she  was  quite  unable  to  respond  to  a 
deep,  imperative  passion.  She  had  played  with, 
tormented,  allured  him,  till  the  whole  rough  energy 
of  the  man  broke  the  filmy  chains  of  polite  endur- 
ance and  he  spoke  to  her  face  what  others  kept  in 
their  hearts.  It  was  curious  to  trace  the  effect 
those  words  had  upon  her,  even  while  she  still  pur- 
sued her  career  of  triumph.  Curious  but  painful. 

I  found  myself  praying  that  that  experience  had 
not  been  the  writer's — not  my  unknown  mother's. 

Yet  such  vitality  breathed  in  the  words,  the  con- 
fessions were  so  absolutely  real  in  their  naked  truth 
and  scorn,  that  I  grew  sick  with  the  fear  they  roused 
in  me. 

If  this  had  been  her  life,  if  like  this  she  had  lived 
and  suffered,  and  grown  heart-desolate  at  last 

I  closed  the  book.  I  could  not  bear  to  read  more 
of  it  just  then. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

"MERRY/'  I  said,  "bring  the  tea  to  the  drawing- 
room  at  five  o'clock.  I'll  try  and  persuade  my 
uncle  to  come  in  and  have  some  with  me.  He 
hasn't  seen  the  alteration  in  the  room,  and  it  looks 
quite  respectable  in  the  fire-light." 

"Respectable!  'Tis  most  uncommon  butiful, 
miss,"  said  my  handmaiden  with  enthusiasm. 
"That  I  do  say  with  all  my  heart,  though  Aunt 
Graddage  she's  done  naught  but  grumble  of  vanities 
and  'puffed  up  with  their  own  conceits,'  every  morn- 
ing when  we  be  a-dusting  the  furnishings.  But 
the  only  word  in  my  mind,  miss,  is  'Butiful' !" 

I  laughed,  well  pleased,  for  a  kindly  magician  in 
the  shape  of  "Captain  Jim"  had  helped  out  my 
scheme  in  marvellous  fashion.  He  had  wired  that 
a  piano  would  come  down  from  London  selected  by 
himself.  This  was  followed  by  a  letter  in  which  he 
hoped  my  uncle  and  myself  would  excuse  the  liberty 
of  his  choice.  Of  course  that  was  the  only  obliga- 
tion, as  he  dared  not  ask  permission  to  present  it. 
A  friend  of  his  giving  up  housekeeping  had  had  the 
piano  from  an  eminent  London  firm  for  the  short 
space  of  a  year.  The  captain  had  selected  it  origi- 
nally and  thought  it  a  pity  it  should  go  back  to  the 
warehouse  or  be  sold  for  a  quarter  its  value. 

(I  had  mentioned  forty  pounds  as  the  price  my 
uncle  would  pay.) 

So  the  piano  had  come,  and  my  uncle  gave  me  a 
check,  and  I  dispatched  it  joyfully  to  my  kind  as- 

132 


A   JILT'S   JOUKNAL.  133 

sistant.  There  arrived  also  a  huge  case  of  lovely 
and  wonderful  things.  A  Japanese  screen,  Turkish 
embroideries,  quaint  little  folding  tables,  silk-frilled 
cushions,  and  bales  of  tapestry  and  cretonne.  These 
were  the  odds  and  ends  of  "rubbish"  for  which  he 
had  no  use. 

Treasures  they  were  indeed,  and  with  the  memory 
of  the  Court  rooms  in  my  head,  I  set  to  work  on  my 
own  drawing-room. 

This  had  all  happened  during  a  week  of  snow  and 
bitter  cold  and  biting  winds  that  kept  me  indoors. 
I  blessed  Captain  Jim  with  a  full  heart  for  the  de- 
lights of  occupation.  To-day  everything  was  com- 
plete. A  bright  fire  burnt  in  the  grate.  The  cold, 
white  marble  of  the  mantelpiece  was  draped  with 
rich-hued  Oriental  stuff.  Bits  of  china  and  photo- 
graphs relieved  its  former  stiffness.  The  lamps 
had  shades  of  crimson  and  deep  orange.  The  piano 
— a  semi-grand  of  Bechstein's  —  relieved  the  hard 
outline  of  the  room,  and  cushions  and  draperies 
made  couch  and  chairs  presentable  and  ornamental. 

Flowers  and  plants  I  could  not,  of  course,  pro- 
cure, owing  to  the  weather.  But  the  lovely  glow  of 
light  atoned  for  much,  and  I  was  very  proud  of  my 
handiwork. 

One  of  the  little  tables  was  laid  with  a  snowy, 
embroidered  cloth,  and  Merry  brought  the  silver 
tray  and  china  service,  and  retired  for  hot  cakes  and 
bread  and  butter,  while  I  went  to  fetch  the  pro- 
fessor. 

As  I  entered  the  study  in  response  to  his  bidding, 
I  saw  him  sitting  by  the  fire  in  his  old  leather  chair. 
The  room  was  almost  dark. 

"Oh!  you're  not  working!  I'm  so  glad!"  I  ex- 
claimed. 


134  A   JILT'S   JOURNAL. 

He  peered  at  me  through  the  gloom.  "Is  it  you, 
Paula?  No,  my  dear — I'm  not — ah — working.  I 
sit  passive  sometimes  to  think  out  my  subjects  and 
facts  and  data." 

"I  want  you  to  work  out  some  very  important 
data  for  me,"  I  said  cheerfully.  "Not  here,  though. 
I'm  going  to  take  you  to  my  part  of  the  house  and 
give  you  a  cup  of  tea.  Come  along,  professor." 

I  saw  his  hand  ruffle  up  his  hair  till  it  stood  on 
end  like  a  cockatoo's  crest. 

"Tea,  my  dear?  Graddage  usually  brings  me  a 
cup  when  she  lights — ah — my  lamp." 

"Which  you  usually  allow  to  stand  till  it  gets 
cold.  I'm  beginning  to  know  your  little  ways. 
Now,  please,  just  to  oblige  me,  make  a  tiny  change 
for  once.  The  piano  came  to-day,  and  I've  had  the 
audacity  to  alter  your  scheme  of  furnishing." 

"Mine,"  he  said.  "Oh,  no!  my  dear.  I  had 
nothing  to  do  with  any  furnishing.  Except  the — 
ah — arrangements  of  my  study." 

"Oh,  then  it  was  Graddage.  I  wonder  why  re- 
ligion always  associates  itself  with  ugliness!  She 
evidently  made  the  drawing-room  up  out  of  lamen- 
tations and  backslidings,  and  the  eschewing  of 
worldly  vanities.  The  result  was  a  success  in  hide- 
ousness.  I've  altered  all  that,  and  I  want  your  ap- 
proval. Do  come." 

He  rose  almost,  I  thought,  with  alacrity.  I 
slipped  my  hand  into  his  arm,  led  him  along  the  hall 
and  threw  open  the  drawing-room  door  with  a  tri- 
umphant air.  I  was  greeted  on  the  threshold  by 
Graddage.  She  turned  on  us,  bristling  like  an 
aggressive  eagle. 

"I  hope,  sir,"  she  exclaimed,  "that  you're  not 
goin'  to  encourage  such  sinful  vanity  as  Miss  Paula 


A   JILT'S   JOUKNAL.  135 

seems  bent  on  showing.  'He  that  troubleth  his 
own  house  shall  inherit  the  wind,'  as  the  wise  man 
said." 

"If  he  could  say  that  after  seeing  this  room  he'd 
prove  himself  an  extremely  foolish  one,"  I  answered 
audaciously.  "Do  get  along,  Graddy.  I  want  to 
show  my  uncle  what  improvements  I've  made,  and 
give  him  a  hot  cup  of  tea  for  once." 

"I  take  my  orders,  miss,"  she  snorted,  "from  my 
master  and  no  one  else." 

"Then  give  them,  professor,"  I  said,  squeezing 
his  arm  gently.  "And  let  us  have  a  quiet,  happy 
half  hour  before  you  go  back  to  work." 

He  looked  at  Graddage,  at  the  room,  at  me.  His 
eyes  grew  wonderfully  soft.  "By  all  means,  my 
dear,"  he  said.  "The  invitation  sounds  tempting. 
My  good  Graddage,  we  will  dispense  with  you  for 
— ah — the  present ;  the  present.  If  you  will  be  good 
enough  to  light  the  lamp  in  my  study,  I  shall — ah — 
feel  obliged." 

I  chuckled  to  myself.  Graddy  was  not  going  to 
have  everything  her  own  way. 

She  tossed  her  head  with  its  quaint  cap,  and  dart- 
ing a  most  unchristian-like  glance  at  me,  left  the 
room. 

I  led  the  old  man  up  to  the  easy  chair  by  the  fire, 
and  seated  myself  opposite,  beside  the  tea-table. 

"We're  going  to  be  quite  nice,  fashionable  peo- 
ple," I  said,  as  I  poured  out  the  tea.  "No  one  now- 
adays has  tea  in  the  dining-room  on  a  table.  It's 
always  served  like  this.  How  do  you  like  it?" 

"It  is — charming,"  he  said,  glancing  round. 
Then  he  settled  himself  against  the  big,  frilled 
cushions.  "Charming,"  he  repeated,  "and  very — 
feminine." 


136  A   JILT'S   JOURNAL. 

I  laughed.  "What  else  should  it  be,  professor? 
A  woman's  touch  seems  an  introduction  to  frivoli- 
ties, but  she  has  a  knack  of  making  the  frivolities 
comfortable  and  pleasing,  hasn't  she  ?" 

"In  the  present  instance,"  he  said,  "I  feel  bound 
to — ah — agree. ' ' 

"That's  an  old  dear/'  I  said.  "I  was  half  afraid 
you'd  scold  me." 

He  held  his  cup  poised  half  way  to  his  lips,  and 
looked  at  me  with  sudden  wonder. 

"Scold!"  he  repeated.  "I  scold  you!  Surely, 
Paula,  I  never  have  done — ah — that  ?" 

"Indirectly,"  I  said;  "only  indirectly,  professor. 
Perhaps  disapproval  would  express  your  attitude 
better.  You  have  seemed  to  disapprove  of  me 
sometimes." 

"It  was  unintentional,"  he  said.  "I — you  see,  my 
dear,  you  have  not  on  previous  visits  revealed  your- 
self to  me  as  a — ah — personality.  You  seemed 
careless,  reckless,  illogical.  All  faults  of  youth. 
They  may  have  had  the  effect  of  hindering  my  ap- 
preciation of — better  qualities."  He  finished  his 
tea  and  put  down  the  cup.  "Better  qualities,"  he 
repeated. 

I  brought  him  one  of  Graddy's  hot  tea-cakes,  <and 
placed  the  plate  on  the  little  dwarf  table  by  his 
side. 

"Are  the  better  qualities  coming  out  ?"  I  asked. 

"You  seem  to  me,"  he  said,  regarding  me  seri- 
ously, "what  would  be  called — attractive.  You 
have — ah — many  absurdities,  as  is  natural  to  youth 
— feminine  youth.  You  will  grow  out  of  them  as 
your  mind  enlarges  and  your — ah — intellect  asserts 
itself." 

I  felt  interested.     "Are  you  speaking  generally," 


A  JILT'S  JOURNAL.  137 

I  asked,  "or  really  of  myself?  ME — with  capital 
letters.  Paula,  as  she  is  spoke,  you  know  ?" 

"Of  you,"  he  said,  "as  you  are  beginning  to  reveal 
yourself." 

"That  is  very  nice  of  you,"  I  said.  "Because  it 
shows  that  you  have  begun  to  think  of  me  as  an  in- 
dividual ;  not  a  mere  chair  or  table  you  find  in  your 
way.  Might  I  ask  how  much  of  myself  I  have  re- 
vealed?" 

He  looked  at  me,  then  at  the  room,  the  dainty 
tea-table,  the  open  piano — back  again  to  me. 

"You  have  the  purely  feminine  instincts,"  he  said, 
"of  decorative  surroundings.  The  student  sees  so 
much  with  the  mental  eye  that  the  outer  faculties  of 
observation  grow  absorbed." 

"Are  those  instincts  quite  worthless?"  I  in- 
quired. 

"Far  from  it.  Far — ah — from  it.  They  serve 
to  render  trifles  important,  to  polish — ah — the  rough 
surface  of  surrounding  objects.  A  young  female 
thing"  (I  shuddered)  "adorns  herself  because  she 
takes  pleasure  in  her  appearance.  She  adorns  her 
surroundings  because  they — ah — in  a  measure  set 
off  that  appearance." 

"Professor!"  I  cried  reproachfully. 

"I  am  not  saying,  my  dear,  that  the  care  and  time 
you  have  expended  on  these — ah — artistic  improve- 
ments" (that  sounded  hopeful)  "are  wasted  or  un- 
instructive.  But,  in  your  present  stage  of  existence, 
your  eye  demands  more  than  your  mind.  You  sat- 
isfy your  eye  at  the  expense  of — more  worthy  ob- 
jects." 

"Dear  professor,"  I  said  plaintively,  "I  am  only 
seventeen." 

He  could  not  ruffle  his  hair  any  more,  so  his  be- 


138  A   JILT'S   JOURNAL. 

wildered  fingers  brought  it  into  its  normal  condi- 
tion. 

"I  believe  you  are,"  he  said.  "Seventeen !"  He 
regarded  me  through  his  glasses.  "Your  hair,"  he 
said,  "is  very  beautiful,  Paula.  That  brilliance  is 
— ah — not  quite  usual." 

"I  hope  you  don't  think  I  dye  it?"  I  said,  smiling. 

"Do  women  do  such  a  thing?"  he  asked  inno- 
cently. 

"Why,  of  course,  professor;  even  I  know  that." 

"It  is  like — her  hair,"  he  went  on,  bending  his 
gaze  on  the  fire.  "Once,  I  remember,  it  all  fell 
down.  Like  a  shower  of  gold  it  seemed — a  wonder- 
fully beautiful  sight.  And  how  she  laughed  at  my 
awkwardness  because  I  could  not  put  it  up!  It 
seemed — ah — sacrilege  to  touch  it.  But  Stephen 
was  not  so  stupid.  He  helped  her." 

(Stephen  Trent  was  my  father,  and  the  profes- 
sor's brother. ) 

"I  should  like  to  think  I  was  like  her,"  I  said. 
"I  have  been  reading  her  book.  I  thought  it  might 
help  me  to  know  her.  Tell  me,  professor,  can  any 
one  write  without  being  themselves,  and  putting 
themselves  into  their  writings  ?  Mustn't  it  be  part- 
ly what  they  feel  and  think,  and  how  they  would 
act  under  circumstances?" 

"Not  necessarily,  my  dear.  Imagination  plays  a 
large  part  in  fictional  writing.  Little  traits  of  the 
author  may  creep  in,  but,  as  a  rule,  I  believe  the 
characters  are  quite — ah — impersonal." 

"Oh!"  I  said  disappointedly.  "I  have  been 
studying  her  book,  thinking  it  helped  me  to  know 
her.  And  yet  I  am  sure,  quite  sure,  she  couldn't 
have  broken  hearts  and  wrecked  lives  as  that  girl 
did." 


A   JILT'S   JOURNAL.  139 

"Not  intentionally.  You  are  right,  Paula.  What- 
ever harm  she  did  was  not  of  her  own  will — or  de- 
sire. Her  beauty  was  not  even  her  greatest  charm. 
It  was  that  strange,  winning,  joyous  temperament. 
The  joy  she  gave,  the  light  she  shed.  The  constant 
surprise  she  was  to  herself,  as  well  as  to  others." 

He  gazed  into  the  fire  and  seemed  to  lose  himself 
in  thought. 

Presently  he  looked  at  me.  "You  have  her 
beauty,"  he  said  gravely.  "But  I  do  not  think  you 
will  be  as — interesting." 

"Or  as — unhappy?"  I  asked. 

The  change  that  trembled  over  his  face  was  a 
reproach  to  my  thoughtless  words. 

"Why  should  you  think  she  was  unhappy?" 

"From  her  book,"  I  answered. 

He  moved  uneasily.  "Her  book  is  not  herself. 
It  is  bitter,  cruel,  heartless.  She  was  never  that." 

He  rose  and  leaned  against  the  mantelshelf. 
"Never  that"  he  repeated.  "She  wanted  to  live; 
to  make  discoveries ;  to  get  at  the  root  of  life.  Sex 
hampered  her,  and  her  beauty.  Men  were  always 
around  her — at  her  feet.  To  be  kind  and  gracious, 
or  even  civil,  meant  ensnarement.  She  made  so 
many  unhappy,  that  at  last  she  grew  callous  to  un- 
happiness.  I  don't  know  why  I  tell  you  these 
things,  child — you  draw  them  out  of  me.  She  used 
to  draw  my  thoughts  out  of  me — also." 

"Does  it  hurt  you;  does  it  make  you  unhappy?" 
I  asked. 

"No,  my  dear.  Only  sad — a  little  troubled  be- 
cause the  old  fear  awakes  again.  Because  you,  her 
child,  are  in  some  way  herself  reincarnated.  And 
you  have  to  learn  Life's  lessons  as  she  had.  You 
are,  as  I  said,  only  a  child.  You  believe;  you  are 


140  A   JILT'S   JOURNAL. 

trustful.  It  is  hard  already  to  convince  you  of 
facts — stern,  sober  facts.  But  you  will  find  out  for 
yourself  the  truth  of  life,  the  reason  of  sorrow,  the 
need  of  suffering.  You  may  be  a  pleasure  to  others, 
yet  a  pain  to  yourself.  For  no  one  can  live  to  and 
for  themselves — least  of  ail  a  woman." 

"I  am  glad  you  did  not  say  'a  female  thing' 
again,"  I  answered,  as  I,  too,  rose  and  rang  the  bell 
for  the  removal  of  the  tea-tray.  "And  now  I  am 
going  to  ask  you  a  favor.  Will  you  sit  here  a  little 
longer  if  I  play  to  you?  I  said  I  wouldn't  touch 
the  piano  until  you  were  by  to  hear  it.  It  is  only 
fair,  after  all,  that  you  should  decide  whether  I'm 
worth  the  money  spent  on  accomplishments." 

"Indeed,  my  dear,  it  will  be  a  great  delight  to  me 
to  hear  music  again.  My  solitary  life  has  had  few 
pleasures  in  it.  I  think — it  seems — ah — to  me  as 
if  you  were  determined  to  bring  me  some  at  last." 

I  gave  his  arm  a  little  squeeze,  and  set  his  coat 
straight,  and  then  went  over  to  the  instrument.  The 
tone  of  it  enchanted  me.  I  had  never  played  on  one 
so  beautiful.  I  had  a  good  memory  and  rarely 
played  from  music.  Instinctively  I  abhorred  fan- 
tasias and  variations.  I  felt  that  the  professor 
would  like  music  that  appealed ;  soft,  dreamy  melo- 
dies to  whose  rhythm  his  own  thoughts  might  flow. 
So  I  gave  him  one  or  two  of  Mendelssohn's  Lieder, 
and  then  drifted  to  Chopin,  that  ideal  writer  for  the 
piano.  First  the  "Berceuse,"  then  one  of  the  sim- 
pler nocturnes,  finally  my  first  and  chief  favorite — 
the  Fifth.  When  I  had  finished  I  looked  round  at 
him.  He  was  leaning  back  in  his  chair.  His  eyes 
were  closed.  I  stole  softly  to  his  side,  thinking  he 
was  asleep.  But  he  opened  them  and  looked  at  me. 
Then  he  held  out  his  hand. 


A   JILTS   JOURNAL.  141 

"Well,"  I  said,  smiling,  "was  it  worth  three 
guineas  a  term?" 

"My  dear,"  he  said,  "you  have  given  me  a  great 
pleasure.  Your  playing  is  beautiful.  Your  music 
has  a  soul,  Paula.  A  rare  thing,  my  child — treas- 
ure your  gift." 

He  paused  and  took  another  survey  of  me  and 
the  changed  room.  "It  is  like  a  fairy  story,"  he 
said  abruptly.  "And  I  seem  to  have  awakened  from 
a  long  sleep,  to  life — and  beautiful  things.  I  thank 
you,  Paula.  You  have  been  the  fairy  who  has 
done  it." 


CHAPTER  XV. 

WHEN  he  had  gone  back  to  his  study,  and  I  sat 
alone  in  the  changed  room,  I  thought  with  pardon- 
able gratification  of  his  words. 

I  fancy  there  was  a  self-applauding  Paula  in  the 
background,  seeing  herself  as  a  beneficent  fairy,  and 
pluming  herself  not  a  little  on  already  accomplished 
feats.  But  she  spent  a  long  hour  notwithstanding, 
sometimes  flitting  to  her  piano,  sometimes  nestling 
among  the  cushions  of  the  big  basket-chair  by  the 
fire.  But  always  with  active  thoughts,  vivid  imag- 
inings as  companions. 

"He  said  I  was  beautiful,"  was  one  of  the 
thoughts.  "Another  girl  might  feel  vain — but  I 
don't.  I  haven't  even  looked  in  the  glass.  It's  no 
credit  to  myself.  I  can  no  more  help  it  than  I  could 
help  having  a  crooked  spine,  or  a  squint,  had  Fate 
so  chosen  to  afflict  me.  My  mother  was  beautiful 
also.  He  said  she  was  loved  wherever  she  went. 
Yet  she  was  unhappy.  No  one  who  was  not  un- 
happy could  have  written  that  book." 

I  fell  to  wondering  about  my  own  life  and  its 
possibilities.  I  asked  myself  if  beauty  were  a  wo- 
man's greatest  power.  If  a  fair  face  had  such 
charm  for  men  that  straightway  they  became  the 
bond  slaves  of  its  possessor.  History  had  told  me 
the  fate  of  many  of  the  world's  famous  beauties.  It 
had  rarely  been  a  happy  one. 

142 


A   JILT'S   JOURNAL.  143 

"After  all,  however  much  love  a  woman  wins,  she 
can  only  love  one  man,"  I  said  to  myself. 

A  sudden  memory  flashed  before  me  of  seeing 
words  to  that  effect  written  somewhere.  My  eyes 
fell  on  Fenella.  I  opened  it  and  turned  over  some 
of  its  pages.  Yes — here  it  was. 

"Let  a  woman  be  ever  so  greatly  loved,  she  can 
only  love  one  of  her  lovers — at  a  time/' 

The  horrid  little  cynicism  of  that  ending  was  like 
a  douche  of  cold  water.  I  closed  the  book  with  an 
angry  snap.  Having  once  begun  to  think  of  love, 
I  looked  upon  it  as  most  girls  look. 

A  "once-and-forever"  sentiment.  To  repeat  it, 
to  give  it  second  or  third-hand,  seemed  a  sacrilege 
to  one's  nature  and  one's  instincts.  Yet,  after  all, 
why  should  love  be  a  thing  of  once  giving  only? 
Supposing  it  unworthy,  unreturned,  disappointed, 
why  could  it  not  withdraw  into  the  heart  once  more, 
rest,  and  grow  strong  and  wise  by  experience,  even 
as  the  body  grows  again  to  health  by  proper  care 
and  rest  and  training? 

Why,  indeed  ?  The  newly  discovered  Paula  theo- 
rized and  pondered  most  wisely  over  the  question; 
avoiding  disquieting  truths,  building  all  the  possi- 
bilities of  her  own  future  on  the  foundation  of  two 
fictional  experiences.  One  was  that  of  Etoile,  the 
artist ;  the  other — Fenella,  the  jilt. 

Another  week  has  passed,  and  I  have  settled  into 
a  comfortable  groove  of  existence.  So  far  as  I  can 
see,  my  life  will  run  in  this  groove  until  I  leave 
home  for  good  and  all. 

(It  may  be  for  evil,  suggests  a  little  sprite  that 


144  A  JILT'S   JOTJENAE. 

often  talks  to  me.  Marriage  is  a  lottery,  and  prizes 
are  few.) 

To-day  surprise  left  a  ripple  on  the  placid-flowing 
stream.  I  was  sitting  in  the  drawing-room  waiting 
the  professor's  appearance  for  tea,  when  Merry 
opened  the  door  and  announced,  "Lady  St.  Quin- 
ton  and  Lady  Brancepeth." 

I  was  thankful  the  lamps  were  lit,  and  the  room 
looking  its  best. 

Lady  St.  Quinton  greeted  me  warmly,  and  then 
glanced  at  the  room.  "Why,  my  dear,"  she  ex- 
claimed, "how  charming  you  have  made  yourself 
here ;  I  shouldn't  have  known  it !" 

"I  think  it  is  a  little  better,"  I  said,  as  I  released 
my  hand  from  the  cool  touch  of  the  Lorely's  gray 
suede.  "It  could  hardly  have  been  worse." 

I  drew  chairs  forward,  and  they  settled  themselves 
and  threw  off  their  furs. 

"Such  awful  weather!"  chirped  Lady  St.  Quin- 
ton, who  was  a  gay,  breezy  little  woman  of  forty 
years  and  juvenile  appearance.  "We've  been  quite 
prisoners!  However,  the  snow's  gone  at  last.  I 
came,  my  dear,  to  ask  if  you  would  care  to  come  to 
our  theatricals  next  Friday.  We've  been  spending 
these  wretched  days  in  rehearsing  and  getting  up  a 
comedy.  We  mean  to  inflict  our  neighbors  with  it 
now.  Very  short  notice,  but  in  the  country  that's 
excusable.  There  will  be  a  little  dance  afterward. 
You  must  stay  the  night.  I  hope  you'll  come." 

"I  shall  be  delighted,"  I  said.  "But—"  my  face 
fell.  I  glanced  at  Lady  Brancepeth,  who  was  flit- 
ting about  the  room,  with  a  tortoise-shell  eye-glass 
impertinently  adjusted,  examining  my  screen  and 
decorations.  "I'm  afraid  I've  no  dress  suitable,"  I 
hastily  concluded. 


A   JILT'S   JOURNAL.  145 

"Dress !"  She  regarded  me  vaguely.  "Oh,  any- 
thing simple — you're  so  young,  you  know.  Your 
maid  might  fix  you  up." 

I  thought  of  Merrieless  and  her  clumsy  fingers, 
and  laughed.  Just  then  an  exclamation  from  Lady 
Brancepeth  fell  on  the  air. 

"Well,  I  do  declare — I'm  sure  it  is.  Where  did 
you  get  this  screen,  Paula  ?"  she  asked  sharply. 

"It  was  sent  to  me,"  I  said;  "a  present  from  a 
friend — going  abroad." 

She  threw  me  an  almost  savage  flash  of  her  tur- 
quoise eyes. 

"I  could  almost  swear,"  she  said,  "that  it  was 
Jim's!" 

I  laughed  softly  to  myself.  Lady  St.  Quinton 
turned  round,  also  produced  a  long-handled  glass 
and  surveyed  the  screen  in  question.  "Those  things 
are  so  much  alike,"  she  murmured.  "Now  that 
Tottenham  Court  road  and  Baker  street  supply 
them  at — any  price." 

"Alike — yes,"  snapped  Lady  Brancepeth.  "But 
I  happen  to  know " 

Lady  St.  Quinton  gave  a  discreet  cough.  "Per- 
haps it  is  a  second-hand  one,"  she  suggested. 

I  gave  no  help.  It  amused  me  that  the  "Lorely" 
should  forget  good  manners,  and  show  curiosity  and 
ill-temper  over  my  insignificant  possessions. 

Lady  Brancepeth  came  back  to  the  fire  and  seated 
herself.  Her  delicate  face  was  flushed,  and  her  eyes 
had  a  hard,  steely  glitter.  However,  she  said  no 
more  about  the  screen. 

Lady  St.  Quinton  reverted  to  the  subject  of  my 
dress  while  Merry,  who  had  brought  in  the  tea,  was 
arranging  the  table. 

"A  white  gown;  anything  simple,"  she  repeated. 


146  A   JILT'S   JOURNAL. 

"Hasn't  she  an  evening  frock  ?"  questioned  Lady 
Brancepeth. 

"No,"  I  said.  "I've  never  required  one;  and  I'm 
not  'out.' ' 

"Better  send  to  town.  You  said  your  friend, 
Miss  Heath " 

"She's  gone  to  the  Riviera." 

"Peter  Robinson  would  do  you  at  very  short  no- 
tice. You  need  only  send  a  pattern  and  measure- 
ments, and  name  price.  They'd  need  a  check  on  ac- 
count, or  a  reference." 

"Oh,  I  could  manage  that,"  I  said  gleefully.  "And 
as  it's  to  be  white  there's  no  difficulty." 

"Don't  have  book-muslin,"  sneered  the  Lorely. 
"It's  a  little  out  of  fashion." 

"And  don't  forget  to  order  the  accessories," 
chimed  in  Lady  St.  Ouinton;  "gloves,  shoes,  stock- 
ings, lace  'undies' — all  that  sort  of  thing." 

I  felt  apprehensive.  I  wondered  if  I  could  ask 
the  professor  for  another  check  so  soon.  He  entered 
almost  on  the  thought. 

I  had  never  seen  him  in  company  before,  and 
was  a  little  surprised  at  his  ease  and  courtesy. 
He  seemed  pleased  at  Lady  St.  Quinton's  in- 
vitation. 

"Most  kind,"  he  said,  "most  kind.  My  little  girl 
has  but  a  dull  life  of  it  here.  It  will  do  her  good  to 
have  a  little  gaiety — and — see  other  young  folk,  like 
herself." 

"I  am  afraid  she  won't  do  that,"  said  Lady 
Brancepeth.  "Your  niece  is  singularly  unlike  most 
girls  of  her  age,  and — period." 

I  gave  them  tea.  The  professor  took  his  cup  in  a 
careful,  anxious,  way,  conscious  that  the  use  of  the 
dwarf  table  was  not  his  to-night. 


A   JILT'S   JOURNAL.  147 

He  held  it  for  a  moment,  fixing  a  grave,  search- 
ing gaze  on  the  Lorely's  lovely  face. 

"In  what  way,  Lady  Brancepeth,"  he  asked,  "is 
my  niece  different  from  the  girls  of  her  age — and 
period?" 

"Oh!"  she  said  airily,  "she  combines  innocence 
and  resource  so  effectively.  As  a  rule,  a  girl  limits 
herself  to  one  or  other.  Paula  should  be  a  success. 
She  is  very  clever." 

"I  think  she  is,"  said  the  professor,  gently.  "And 
will  be — more  so,"  he  added.  "But  her  cleverness  is 
distinct  from  artificial  trickery.  She  will  think  out 
her  own  course  of  life,  and  follow  it." 

He  drank  his  tea  amidst  a  surprised  silence. 

"I  hope  the  course  she  intends  to  follow  will  be  as 
admirable  as  her  intentions,"  said  Lady  Brancepeth. 
"We  generally  begin  well,  professor." 

"I  am  sure  of  that,"  he  said  earnestly.  "I  always 
like  to  think  that,  however  life  ends  for  a  woman, 
she  began  it  well.  That  the  disasters,  troubles,  ship- 
wreck are  less  her  own  fault  than  the  fault  of — 
circumstances." 

"They  are  always  the  fault  of — circumstances," 
chirped  Lady  St.  Quinton,  gaily.  "We  would  all  be 
successful — if  we  could." 

She  put  down  her  cup  and  leaned  toward  him. 
"Have  you  considered,"  she  asked,  "the  subject  of 
Paula's  'coming  out'?  You  know  we  discussed  it 
once,  and  I " 

"I  remember,"  he  said.  "You  offered  to  under- 
take certain — ah — responsible  duties." 

"Yes — chaperonage.  I  have  no  daughters  of  my 
own,  you  know,  but  I  like  young  girls  about  me.  I 
should  be  delighted  to  introduce  Paula,  if  you  both 
wish?" 


148  A   JILT'S   JOURNAL. 

"She  ought,  I  suppose,  to  see  something  of  the  life 
that  other  girls  enjoy?" 

"Of  course.  And  a  London  season  is  a  very 
pleasant  thing.  I  go  up  to  town  usually  in  May. 
Three  months  of  it  are  quite  enough  for  me,  I  am 
such  a  country  lover.  But  if  I  have  such  an  induce- 
ment as  the  bringing  out  of  a  new  beauty — and  I 
will  vouch  for  Paula  being  considered  that — why,  I 
would  go  up  a  month  earlier." 

My  cheeks  grew  hot  under  this  personal  discus- 
sion. 

"That  is  for  you  to  consider,  madam,"  said  the 
professor,  courteously.  "I  should  say,  from  my 
own  point  of  view,  that  three  months  of  dances,  late 
hours,  hot  rooms,  perpetual  excitement,  was  enough 
for  any  young  woman  in  the  year.  But  maybe  I 
am  old-fashioned  in  my  opinions  —  no  doubt  I 
am." 

"You,  of  course,  lead  such  a  very  studious  life,  my 
dear  professor.  But  Paula  is  young,  and  naturally 
looks  forward  to  brightness  and  gaiety.  I  promise 
she  shall  have  it,  and  I  will  look  after  her  as  if  she 
were  my  own  child." 

"Thank  you,"  he  said.  "I  believe  you  will.  I 
am  glad  it  is  settled.  The — ah — business  part  of 
the  arrangement  we  will  discuss  privately,  at  a  fu- 
ture time." 

He  handed  me  his  cup. 

"And  about  the  party  on  Friday?"  went  on  Lady 
St.  Quinton.  "I  suggested  she  should  sleep  the 
night.  But  if  you  could  spare  her  over  Sunday, 
professor,  we  would  be  charmed  to  keep  her.  It 
would  be  an  opportunity  to  get  acquainted  with  one 
another.  Most  of  my  house  party  are  leaving  on 
the  Saturday,  so  I  shall  have  my  time  on  my  hands." 


A   JILT'S   JOUBNAL.  149 

"Anything  that  you  consider  best,  and  that 
pleases  her,  will  be  satisfactory  to  me,"  he  an- 
swered. 

Then  his  solemn  glance  wandered  to  the  lovely, 
sullen  face  of  the  other  visitor.  He  studied  it  in  his 
classifying  manner  for  a  moment,  then  looked  at 
me.  "I  suppose,"  he  said  vaguely,  "I  am  doing 
what  is  best — for  her?" 

"Most  decidedly,"  said  Lady  Brancepeth,  sharply. 
"Every  girl  has  a  right  to  see  life  before  she  decides 
on  her  own  place  in  it.  Of  course  it  will  all  seem 
very  funny  to  Paula — at  first.  But  if  she  is  clever 
enough  to  observe,  she  will  soon  be  clever  enough  to 
know  the  ropes.  Once  you've  learned  that — you  can 
pick  and  choose  for  yourself." 

The  professor  regarded  the  speaker  with  amiable 
bewilderment.  "Ropes,"  he  said ;  "I'm  afraid " 

"Oh,  you're  not  used  to  slang,  of  course.  It's  a 
way  one  gets  into  of  talking.  You  see  I'm  so  at 
home  with  it  all,  that's  it's  second  nature.  But 
Paula " 

Lady  St.  Ouinton  rose  hurriedly.  "My  dear 
Lorely,  we  must  be  going.  Such  a  long  visit.  So 
delighted  to  have  seen  you,  professor,  and  so  kind 
of  you  to  spare  the  dear  child.  My  husband  raves 
about  her.  '  I'll  take  the  greatest  care,  I  assure 
you — the  greatest.  Paula,  child,  you'll  remember 
Friday.  I'll  send  for  you  in  the  afternoon,  and  send 
you  back  on  Monday.  Good-by — good-by,  pro- 
fessor." 

They  shook  hands.  Lady  Brancepeth's  slim  fin- 
gers once  more  touched  mine.  Her  lifted,  insolent 
eyes  glanced  in  the  direction  of  the  screen,  then 
seemed  to  sweep  over  the  shining  crown  of  twisted 
hair  about  my  head. 


150  A   JILT'S   JOURNAL. 

She  dropped  my  hand  and  swept  out,  a  mocking 
smile  on  her  lips. 

"Till  Friday,"  she  said,  as  the  door  closed  on  the 
frou-frou  of  trailing  skirts. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

THE  order  for  my  dress  went  off  to  town  that 
same  night,  and  it  arrived,  with  what  Lady  St. 
Quinton  called  its  accessories,  on  the  following 
Thursday  morning. 

In  the  evening  I  had  a  dress  rehearsal,  with 
Merriless  for  audience  and  critic. 

To  be  assured  that  the  gown  was  "fit  for  a  queen- 
royal,"  that  my  arms  and  neck  and  throat  were 
"whiter  than  the  driven  snow,"  was  eminently  satis- 
factory. 

The  glass  in  my  wardrobe  door  afforded  me  a  full 
view  of  myself,  but  the  sense  of  strangeness  at  my 
changed  aspect  left  me  still  doubtful  as  to  whether 
that  change  was  for  the  better.  Paula  in  serge  and 
tweed,  I  knew.  Paula  with  a  rough  jacket  and 
scarlet  tam-o'-shanter  on  her  head  was  also  a  fa- 
miliar figure.  But  this  Paula,  with  the  sheen  of 
ivory  satin,  with  the  exquisite  flow  of  a  real  train, 
such  as  fashion  plates  advertised,  with  bare  white 
throat  and  never  flower  or  jewel  to  disturb  the  pure, 
harmonious  tones  of  the  white  toilette — this  was, 
indeed,  a  revelation! 

Peacock-like,  I  drew  my  rustling  train  along  the 
room  to  "get  used  to  it."  It  would  be  terrible  if 
any  gancherie  confessed  to  those  cynical  folk  at  the 
Court  that  I  and  an  evening  gown  were  strangers 
to  each  other. 

"There's  so  much  in  knowing  how  to  wear  your 
clothes,"  I  said  to  Merry. 

151 


1521  A   JILT'S   JOURNAL. 

"There's  not  more  in  the  knowing  o'  that  than 
you're  able  to  cope  with,  miss,"  she  answered  me. 
"You  do  look  a  real  beauty,  you  do." 

"Candle  light,"  I  said  doubtfully,  "is  very  decep- 
tive, Merry." 

"I'll  bring  the  lamp  an'  you  wish  it,  miss.  And 
do  let  me  call  Aunt  Graddage  to  see  you.  Such 
an  adorned  vision  o'  rare  maidenhood  ha'n't  come 
her  way  this  score  o'  years,  I'll  be  bound." 

"Oh,  she'll  throw  the  whole  Book  of  Proverbs  at 
my  head,"  I  said. 

"Ah,  true  eno',  miss.  With  her  own  heart  as 
hard  as  a  hazel  nut,  'tain't  to  be  looked  for  that  she'll 
talk  flattery  to  such  a  captivating  piece  o'  flesh  and 
blood!  Well,  to-morrow  night,  miss,  you'll  have 
finer  tongues  than  mine  to  praise  ye,  though  maybe 
not  as  honest." 

"I've  half  a  mind  to  go  down  to  the  study  and 
show  myself  to  the  professor,"  I  said,  surveying  my- 
self once  more. 

"That  I  would,  miss.  'Tis  wonderful  already 
what  a  power  o'  interest  he  do  take  in  you.  Quite 
a  changed  man  he  do  seem  when  one  is  observing 
him." 

I  laughed  gaily.  "I'll  try  my  charms  on  him,"  I 
said,  "as  he's  the  only  male  creature  handy."  And 
gathering  up  the  trailing  skirt  I  ran  downstairs. 

Half-way,  I  saw  Graddage  opening  the  hall  door. 
I  halted,  wondering  if  she  were  admitting  a  visitor. 
Adam  Herivale  stood  there,  the  hall  light  shining 
above  him. 

"Is  Miss  Trent "  he  began. 

Then  his  words  snapped,  and  he  looked  straight 
up  the  stairs  at  me. 

I  had  not  recognized  the  full  meaning  of  be- 


A   JILT'S   JOURNAL.  153 

wilderment  till  I  saw  his  face.  I  had  not  learned 
the  secret  of  a  woman's  power  until  I  met  the  gaze 
of  his  eyes. 

Graddage,  following  them,  turned  also.  Her  face 
was  a  study  of  grim  disapprobation.  "Whatever 
be  you  dressed  up  that  sort  o'  way  for?"  she  de- 
manded. 

But  I  took  no  notice,  only  ran  down  the  few  re- 
maining stairs  and  greeted  Adam  gaily. 

"Come  in  here,"  I  said,  opening  the  drawing- 
room  door,  and  he  followed  me  obediently. 

"I've  been  trying  on  a  ball  dress,"  I  informed 
him.  "My  first  real  ball  dress.  I'm  going  to  the 
Court  to-morrow  to  stay  till  Monday.  And  this  has 
just  come  from  town.  What  do  you  think  of 
it?" 

"I'm  afraid  I'm  no  judge  of  women's  clothes," 
he  began. 

I  interrupted. 

"Clothes?"  I  said,  with  horrified  emphasis. 
"Fancy  calling  this  lovely  thing  clothes!  Oh,  Mr. 
Herivale,  and  you've  been  to  London,  and  to  the- 
atres, and  ceremonies,  and  you  don't  know  how  to 
distinguish  Cinderella  from — the  princess." 

"But  you  were  never  Cinderella,"  he  said,  smil- 
ing. "Though  you  do  look  a  fairy  princess  now,  I 
grant.  It  happens  I  came  fortunately,  though  'twas 
only  with  a  message  to  say  the  ice  was  bearing 
again,  and  would  you  care  to  go  on  with  the  skat- 
ing?" 

"Oh,  how  lovely!  But  let  me  see — I  go  to  the 
Court  to-morrow  afternoon.  They're  sending  a 
carriage  for  me." 

His  face  fell.  "There's  the  morning,"  he  said. 
"But,  of  course,  coming  to  and  fro  is  a  bit  tiring. 


154  A   JILT'S   JOURNAL. 

I'll  tell  you  what,  I  could  drive  you  from  our  place 
any  hour  after  luncheon-time,  if " 

His  eye  fell  on  my  gown.  "Oh,  the  dressing !  I 
forgot  that." 

"But  as  the  carriage  is  coming,"  I  said  eagerly,  "I 
can  send  my  box  and  come  on  later,  as  you  suggest. 
You  don't  suppose,"  I  added,  "that  I'm  going  there 
dressed  like — this?  They're  to  have  private  theat- 
ricals and  then  a  dance,"  I  rattled  on. 

"Private  theatricals — and  to-morrow  night,  is  it? 
That  explains " 

He  stopped  abruptly,  and  his  hand  went  to  his 
coat  pocket.  He  took  out  a  card  and  read  out 
slowly : 

"Lady  St.  Ouinton.     At  home. 

"Private  theatrical  R.  S.  V.  P." 

"Why,  that's  an  invitation,"  I  said  gaily.  "And 
to  you.  Oh,  do  go !  It  will  be  so  nice  to  have  some 
one  I  like  to  talk  to  there." 

"I  thought  nothing  of  it,"  he  said,  his  grave  eyes 
regarding  me  in  perplexity.  "A  compliment,  that's 
all.  Same  as  asking  us  to  the  Christmas  dance  and 
harvest  home  supper,  only  they've  asked  no  one  be- 
side myself." 

"Well,  you  surely  don't  want  a  chaperon,"  I  said 
gaily. 

He  smiled.  "It's  not  that,  Miss  Trent ;  it  seemed 
a  sort  of  slight,  passing  over  the  others.  It's  never 
been  done  before." 

I  looked  down  at  the  point  of  my  shoe,  and  won- 
dered at  his  being  so  sensitive.  "Then  you're  not 
going?"  I  said. 

"I  told  you  I  hadn't  thought  about  it  again,  but 
now " 


I  looked  quickly  up.  (Oh,  Paula!  are  you  learn- 
ing your  lesson  already?) 

"Well,"  I  asked,  "does  now  mean  that  you've 
changed  your  mind?" 

He  drew  himself  up,  squaring  his  broad  shoulders, 
and  there  were  pride  and  a  fine  sense  of  manhood's 
due  in  his  eyes. 

"Miss  Trent,  though  we  don't  rank  with  the 
county  families,  there's  none  older,  few  better  than 
ours.  And  it's  no  pleasure  to  mix  with  fine  ladies 
and  gentlemen  who  treat  me  only  as  a  farmer,  no 
more,  no  less.  By  keeping  to  myself  I  can  at  least 
avoid  impertinence." 

"But  surely  if  they  asked  you,  it  shows  they 
meant  to  treat  you  as — on  equal  grounds,  I  mean." 

"I  should  be  only  one  of  the  crowd,"  he  said. 
"Crushed  into  a  back  seat ;  treated  as  a  nobody.  A 
shake  hands  from  my  lady,  a  'good-evening'  from 
my  lord.  It  wouldn't  be  worth  pocketing  my  inde- 
pendence for  such  poor  pay,  Miss  Trent — only " 

He  looked  at  me  again,  from  the  glitter  of  my  hair 
to  the  folds  of  the  ivory  satin  train.  "Only  for — 
something,"  he  went  on  hurriedly,  "that  could  make 
up.  If  you  treat  me  before  all  those  grand  folk  as 
you  have  always  done  at  other  times  I'm  ready  to 
forget  pride.  But  I  don't  want  to  suffer  your  scorn 
as  well  as  their  indifference." 

"My — scorn!"  I  laughed  outright.  I  really 
couldn't  help  it. 

Paula  the  Scornful,  the  Dignified,  trampling  on 
the  fine  feelings  of  an  honest  yeoman.  The  picture 
seemed  to  be  irresistibly  amusing.  Then  I  held  out 
my  hands. 

"Adam  Herivale,"  I  said,  "don't  put  absurd  ideas 
into  my  head.  It's  foolish  enough  without.  Why, 


156  A   JILT'S   JOUKNAL. 

if  the  queen  and  her  court  and  hundreds  of  grand 
people  stood  around,  and  I  saw  you,  I'd  speak  and 
act  just  as  I've  always  done !  Why  shouldn't  I  ?  One 
likes  a  person  for  what  he  is — not  for  what  he  has." 

"A  sweet  bit  of  wisdom,"  he  said,  releasing  my 
impulsive  hands.  "God  grant  you  may  keep  it,  and 
your  heart,  too,  in  its  innocent  faith.  But " 

"Now  look  here,"  I  said  impulsively.  "Every 
one  seems  bent  on  telling  me  what  a  dreadfully 
wicked  place  the  world  is,  and  what  a  bad  effect  it 
will  have  upon  me  in  particular.  I  really  will  not 
have  you  beginning  the  same  thing.  I  must  find  it 
out  for  myself,  and  I  mean  to.  Fancy,  I  am  going 
to  have  a  real  season  in  town,  and  Lady  St.  Quinton 
is  to  be  my  chaperon.  Oh,  it  will  be  lovely !  I  was 
nearly  wild  with  joy  when  I  heard  of  it." 

His  face  looked  so  grave,  so  almost  stern,  that  it 
was  plain  he  did  not  share  my  enthusiasm. 

"A  season  in  town,"  he  repeated.  "And  with 
Lady  St.  Quinton;  that  means  her  set — the  sort  of 
people  up  at  the  Court  now;  and  you — thrown 
among  them." 

"Why  not?"  I  asked.  "Are  they  worse  than 
other  people?" 

"I  don't  know  much  of  other  people,"  he  said 
slowly.  "But  I  know  them.  I'm  not  counted  a 
gentleman,  Miss  Trent,  and  supposed  to  have  only 
such  feelings  as  are  allowed  to  a  clod,  but  if  one  of 
my  sisters  had  received  such  an  offer  as  you  have 
had,  I  wouldn't  care  for  her  to  accept  it." 

Indignation  got  the  better  of  surprise. 

"Do  you  know  what  you're  insinuating?"  I  asked 
him,  trying  to  amalgamate  Paula  the  indignant  with 
the  innocent  victim  of  his  imagination. 

"Yes,  Miss  Trent,  I  do  know.     I've  never  been  a 


rA   JILT'S   JOURNAL.  157 

man  to  walk  through  life  blindfold.  There's  no 
innocence  in  being  ignorant  because  you  can't  help 
yourself.  Innocence  is  having  a  clean  soul  and 
keeping  it  clean  when  the  world's  doing  its  best 
to  smirch  it.  And  that's  what  the  world  does  to 
every  soul,  believe  me.  It's  not  God's  place;  it's 
man's.  And  all  the  vileness  of  his  thoughts,  his 
greed  for  gain,  his  lust  for  power,  his  paltry  vani- 
ties, his  loathsome  vices  are  there.  'Tis  a  seething 
furnace  into  which  youth  thrusts  a  careless  hand  and 
expects  to  bring  it  out  unscorched.  It  never  does — 
it  never  does !" 

He  moved  restlessly  across  the  room,  back  again 
to  where  I  stood,  dazed  by  the  passionate  force  of 
his  words.  My  foot  rested  on  the  fender  bar  as  I 
leaned  against  the  mantelpiece,  my  uplifted  skirt 
showed  the  pearl-embroidered  shoe  whose  fascinat- 
ing toe  I  had  been  admiring.  He  came  up  to  me 
again.  His  eyes  rested  also  on  the  peeping  foot, 
the  glitter  of  the  pearls. 

"Could  you  walk  along  a  miry  road  shod  like 
that?"  he  said,  "and  come  back  without  stain?  I 
think  'twould  be  a  hard  task." 

"But,  Adam,"  I  said — using  his  name  without 
prefix,  because  it  seemed  so  natural — "there's  an- 
other way  of  looking  at  it.  To  keep  one's  eyes 
closed  is  to  shut  out  the  sunshine  as  well  as  the  dark- 
ness. You  said  yourself  that  ignorance  isn't  inno- 
cence. Would  you  have  me  always  blind  because 
it's  peace,  always  ignorant  because  it's  safe?" 

"Would  I  ?"  His  voice  was  low  and  held  a  new 
earnestness  in  its  deep  tones.  "Would  I  keep  pure 
the  lily  that  opened  its  heart  on  Easter  morn? 
Would  I  hold  the  lamb  from  the  hungry  fox  ?  Would 
I  extinguish  the  flame  round  which  the  white  moth 


158  A   JILT'S   JOURNAL. 

fluttered?  Don't  ask  me,  Miss — Paula,  what  I 
would  do  in  such  a  case  as  any  of  these.  I  know 
only  too  well." 

I  felt  the  color  deepening  in  my  cheek. 

Undoubtedly  Adam  Herivale's  interest  in  me  was 
growing  apace.  I  felt  intensely  curious  as  to  the 
nature  of  that  interest.  Did  it  mean  the  preliminary 
stage  of  a  love  affair?  Was  I  to  try  my  '"prentice 
hand"  on  this  simple  yeoman  before  1  took  my  flight 
to  town? 

A  hundred  odd  and  unanswerable  feelings  thrilled 
and  fluttered  within  my  heart.  I  would  have  given 
anything  to  be  able  to  read  his.  Embarrassment 
held  me  silent.  It  was  a  relief  when  he  spoke  again 
in  his  usual  even  tones. 

"I  am  afraid  I  have  taken  up  a  great  deal  of  your 
time.  I  must  be  going.  You  will  come  to  the  pond 
to-morrow?" 

"Certainly  I  will;  if  you  will  promise  to  drive  me 
to  the  Court  before  five  o'clock.  But  perhaps  some 
of  the  party  will  be  there  for  the  skating,  and  then  I 
could  drive  back  in  one  of  the  wagonettes." 

He  looked  less  pleased  at  this  suggestion. 

"Of  course,"  he  said,  "in  that  case,  you  must 
please  yourself." 

"And  are  you  coming  to  the  theatricals  ?"  I  asked, 
looking  up  at  his  grave  face. 

He  hesitated.  A  little  line  puckered  his  brow, 
his  eyes  met.  mine  doubtfully. 

"It  would  matter  little  to  you,  I  suppose  ?"  he  said 
at  last. 

"What  has  that  to  do  with  it?"  I  asked  demurely. 
"You  would  surely  go  to  please  yourself." 

"I  might  go,"  he  said,  "and  yet  not  please — my- 
self." 


A   JILT'S   JOURNAL.  159 

"Then,  if  in  doubt,  let  some  one  decide  for  you." 

His  eyes  gave  a  quick  flash.  "If — some  one  only 
would  ?"  he  said  softly.  "But  it's  asking  too  much." 

"I  will  ask  you,"  I  said.  "And  you  must  sit  by 
me  and  we'll  talk  about  everyone,  and  have  our  own 
fun  to  ourselves.  I  get  on  much  better  with  you 
than  any  of  those  slangy  men." 

"Thank  you,"  he  said,  offering  his  hand.  "I  shall 
come,  and — I  hope  the  seat  beside  you  may  be  pos- 
sible." 

"Good-by,"  I  said.  "I  must  go  into  the  study  a 
moment  and  show  myself  to  the  professor.  I  won- 
der whether  he  will  see  any  difference  in  me  ?  I  sup- 
pose," I  added  doubtfully,  "there  is  a  difference. 
Do  I  look — taller?  This  is  the  first  train  I've  ever 
had." 

"You  look,"  he  said,  "like  a  picture." 

"Oh,  I  hope  not !  Because  that's  only  paint  and 
still  life,  and  I  feel  very  much  alive!" 

We  were  in  the  hall  now,  and  Graddage  appeared 
to  open  the  door.  She  gave  me  a  severe  look,  as  if 
condemning  my  levity. 

He  took  up  his  hat.  "Don't  catch  cold,"  he  said. 
"It  is  freezing  hard.  I  shall  look  out  for  you 
about " 

"Ten  o'clock,"  I  said.  "Good-by  again,  and  pray 
the  frost  may  last  till  I  can  skate  properly." 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

I  OPENED  the  study  door  and  peeped  in. 

"Enter  Young  Frivolity,"  I  said,  laughing.  "Will 
Wisdom  kindly  pardon  the  liberty  ?" 

The  gray  head  lifted  itself  from  the  page  over 
which  it  was  bent.  A  puzzled  scrutiny  rewarded 
Frivolity's  intrusion. 

"Paula — is  it  really  you?" 

"Really  and  truly.  Don't  fine  feathers  make  fine 
birds?  This  frock  came  down  from  London,  and  I 
tried  it  on  to  see  if  it  was  all  right.  Do  you  think  I 
shall  pass  muster  in  the  crowd  to-morrow?" 

I  stood  before  him  on  the  hearth-rug  and  dropped 
my  train.  He  pushed  up  his  glasses  and  surveyed 
me  with  a  new  uncertainty. 

"You  are  very  bewildering,  Paula,"  he  said.  "You 
seem  to  me  always  changing.  If  it  isn't  a  mood,  itrs 
a  gown.  But  anything  so  radiant,  so  dazzling  as 
you  look  to-night.  My  dear  child,  I  wish  your 
mother  could  see  you  now." 

I  forgot  my  dress,  my  appearance,  everything. 
"Oh,  why  did  you  say  that?"  I  cried,  with  sudden 
passion.  "It  gives  me  a  heartache.  And  yet  I 
should  have  said  it  first." 

"You  felt  it — I  suppose?" 

"No,  not  till  you  spoke.  I'm  afraid  I'm  a  vain 
butterfly,  professor.  I  was  so  full  of  myself;  I 
never  thought  of — her." 

"It  is  only  natural  you  should  be  full  of  yourself, 
100 


A   JILT'S   JOURNAL.  161 

and  happy.     I  think  I  never  saw  any  face  look  as 
happy  as  yours  when  you  came  into  the  room." 

"I  am  happy.  I  seem  to  have  nothing  but  pleas- 
ant things  to  look  forward  to.  Skating,  and  the 
party,  and  the  theatricals  and  a  dance.  A  dance 
with  real  partners — not  girls  or  schoolboys.  Yes, 
I  feel  very  happy;  I  hope  it  will  last.  Was  she 
happy,  professor — my  mother?" 

A  shadow  crossed  his  face  and  his  eyes  wandered 
to  the  book  on  the  table. 

"Not  always,"  he  said.  "No  one  is,  my  dear. 
One  must  not  ask  too  much  of  life.  She,  too,  was 
very  brilliant.  She  could  not  be  five  minutes  any- 
where without  exciting  comment  and  attention.  It 
was  her  charm.  At  first  it  seemed  to  surprise — 
ah — herself.  But  it  became  second  nature." 

"With  all  that,"  I  said,  "how  could  she  be  un- 
happy?" 

"That  is  not  for  me  to  say.  Women  are  strange 
creatures.  They  may  have  a  great  deal,  but  there 
is  always  one  thing  wanting — one  thing  they  never 
get,  so  they  say.  She  had  her  own  theories.  She 
often  spoke  of  life  as  a  torment  and  a  struggle.  A 
fight  against  an  unconquerable  fate.  We  stand  on 
the  borders  of  a  Promised  Land,  but  when  life  draws 
to  its  end  the  Land  is  still  only — promised." 

I  gave  a  little  shiver.  Some  of  my  content  and 
expectation  took  flight. 

"I  will  take  off  this  finery,"  I  said.  "I  am  only 
wasting  your  time.  But  I  thought  I  should  like  you 
to  see  me  in  my  first  ball  dress.  There  will  never 
be  another  quite  the  same,  you  know.  And  when 
it  has  been  soiled,  and  crumpled,  and  danced  upon 
and  I  have  to  throw  it  away — I  wonder " 

But  I  couldn't  say  what  I  wondered,  nor  did  he 


163  A   JILT'S   JOURNAL. 

ask.  But  I  can  write  it  here  as  I  sit  alone  beside  the 
dying  fire,  too  restless  to  go  to  bed — scribbling  with 
pen  as  well  as  with  mind,  for  once.  The  thought 
that  came  to  me  so  coldly  was  whether  with  the  cast- 
away gown  something  of  the  wearer  would  also  be 
thrown  aside.  Something  of  the  glee  and  gaiety 
and  girlishness  that  were  part  and  parcel  of  Paula 
as  she  had  been,  when  first  (to  quote  Dr.  Watts) 

"she  put  that  covering  on!" 

******* 

An  hour  on  the  ice,  with  Adam  Herivale  to  in- 
struct and  guide,  left  me  almost  able  to  depend  on 
myself.  I  skated  perseveringly  till  luncheon-time. 
Then  I  went  into  the  farmhouse.  I  did  not  see  Mrs. 
Herivale,  however.  She  was  not  well,  and  confined 
to  her  room.  The  old  farmer  himself  did  the  hon- 
ors of  the  table,  and  was  so  genial  and  hospitable 
that  I  fell  to  admiring  him,  and  wondering  if  his  son 
would  ever  be  doing  the  same  sort  of  thing  in  the 
same  way. 

Some  of  the  Court  people  came  over  for  the  skat- 
ing, but  not  Lady  Brancepeth.  I  heard  she  was 
busy  rehearsing.  Lord  Brancepeth  had  left,  and 
gone  on  to  some  other  house. 

So  after  all  it  was  Adam  Herivale  who  drove  me 
over,  and  I  arrived  in  a  high  state  of  nervousness 
just  as  the  stable  clock  was  striking  five. 

"Fancy  having  to  go  in  and  face  them  all,"  I  said, 
as  we  drew  up  at  the  entrance.  "My  heart's  gone 
down  to  my  boots.  I  wish  you  were  coming  in 
with  me." 

"That's  very  kind,"  he  said.  "But  five  minutes 
hence  you'll  not  be  sparing  a  thought  to  me.  Your 
courage  is  strong  enough  to  face  worse  things  than 
a  few  fine  ladies.  You'll  be  telling  me  a  different 


A   JILT'S   JOURNAL.  168 

story  when  nine  o'clock  comes,  and  I  am  thinking 
of  a  promise  made  last  night." 

"What  promise?" 

"Miss  Paula — you  haven't  surely  forgotten?  Was 
I  not  to  have  the  honor  of  sitting  beside  you  for  the 
theatricals  ?" 

"Oh,  yes !  But  you  must  look  after  me  and  the 
seat." 

"There's  not  much  fear  that  I'll  forget,"  he  said. 
"Till  nine  o'clock,  then — good-by." 

The  door  swung  open.  A  blaze  of  light  and 
warmth  streamed  out  on  the  frosty  air.  A  footman 
relieved  me  of  my  wraps,  and  I  was  ushered  into  the 
beautiful  old  hall,  where  a  crowd  of  men  and  women 
were  sitting,  or  standing  about,  taking  tea. 

Lady  St.  Ouinton  greeted  me  warmly.  "You 
naughty  child !"  she  said.  "When  the  carriage  came 
back  without  you  I  was  quite  alarmed  till  I  had  your 
note.  So  you've  been  skating  all  day.  How  did 
you  come  here?" 

"I  was  driven,"  I  said,  taking  off  my  gloves,  and 
allowing  her  to  lead  me  to  a  snug  corner  by  the  tea- 
table. 

"Well,  Paula,"  said  a  voice  I  knew  well,  "what 
knight-errant  has  been  your  next  escort?  We 
thought  you'd  thrown  us  over." 

"I  wanted  to  practise  while  the  ice  lasted,"  I 
said. 

"Oh !  and  was  the  farmer  your  instructor  again?" 
she  asked  insolently. 

"Mr.  Herivale  isn't  a  farmer,"  I  answered,  feeling 
my  face  burn  as  sundry  glances  were  directed  at  me. 

"Oh,  I  can't  draw  fine  distinctions,"  she  said.  "A 
yokel  is  always  a  yokel,  even  if  his  family  date  back 
to  the  Norman  Conquest." 


164  A   JILT'S   JOUKNAL. 

"You  didn't  seem  at  all  averse  to  the  yokel's  com- 
pany yourself,  Lady  Brancepeth,"  I  observed. 

She  stared,  then  laughed  shrilly.  "I — because  I 
had  luncheon  at  the  farmhouse.  My  dear  child,  if 
you  make  remarks  like  that,  every  one  will  wonder 
where  you've  been  brought  up.  Your  championship 
is  a  little  out  of  taste,  to  say  the  least  of  it." 

I  drank  my  tea  and  said  no  more.  I  felt  that  I 
hated  this  insolent,  lovely  aristocrat  who  could  be  so 
rude  and  had  a  way  of  making  me  feel  insignificant, 
ignorant,  foolish,  and  only  fit  for  the  schoolroom. 

I  was  thankful  to  be  unnoticed,  and  I  kept  in  my 
corner  by  Lady  St.  Quinton.  But  eyes  and  ears 
were  keen.  The  one  took  in  the  harmony  and 
beauty  of  my  surroundings,  the  other  the  babble  of 
conversation,  the  laughter,  jest  and  repartee  which 
floated  around  that  group  where  the  Lady  "Lorely" 
queened  it  so  insolently. 

No  one  noticed  me  except  Lady  St.  Quinton,  and 
she,  after  a  few  questions,  left  me  to  myself.  I 
suddenly  realized  how  utterly  unlike  these  people  I 
was,  and  the  strangeness  of  a  new  atmosphere 
touched  me  with  discomfort  and  shyness. 

I  felt  almost  sorry  I  had  come. 

The  women  were  mostly  in  tea-gowns — lovely, 
dainty  creations  of  satin  and  lace  which  seemed  just 
suited  to  their  attitudes  and  varying  styles  of 
beauty. 

The  "Lorely"  herself,  in  some  wonderful  arrange- 
ment of  turquoise  velvet  and  old  lace,  looked  a 
dream  of  aristocratic  elegance. 

But — to  my  primitive  ideas — her  voice,  her  laugh, 
and  her  perpetual  slang  seriously  interfered  with  the 
charm  of  the  picture. 


A  JILT'S   JOURNAL.  165 

I  found  myself  in  my  own  room  at  last.  A  smart 
maid  knocked  at  the  door  and  informed  me  that 
"her  ladyship"  had  desired  her  to  unpack,  or  render 
any  assistance  I  needed.  I  gave  her  my  keys  and 
got  rid  of  my  hat  at  last. 

The  room  was  small  but  beautifully  furnished. 
The  dressing  table  a  wonder  of  lace  and  satin,  and 
cut-glass,  and  ivory  boxes. 

I  took  the  deep  padded  chair  by  the  fire  and 
watched  the  grand  London  maid  taking  out  my  in- 
significant apparel. 

Even  my  dress  seemed  less  beautiful  and  artistic 
since  I  had  seen  those  tea-gowns! 

She  laid  it  on  the  bed  and  placed  all  "the  acces- 
sories" ready  for  me. 

"Would  you  like  me  to  dress  your  hair,  miss?" 
she  inquired.  "I  have  half-an-hour  to  spare  before 
I  attend  to  my  lady.  Of  course  the  theatricals  to- 
night make  us  all  busy,  and  dinner  being  earlier — " 

I  jumped  up  eagerly.  "Oh,  if  you  would !"  I  ex- 
claimed. "Tell  me,  could  you  do  my  hair  like  Lady 
Brancepeth's  ?  Would  it — suit  me?" 

"I  think  almost  any  style  would  suit  you,  miss. 
But  if  you  wish  I'll  do  that  coiffure  easily." 

I  threw  off  my  bodice  and  slipped  into  a  dressing- 
jacket.  In  ten  minutes  I  confronted  a  wonderful 
Paula,  with  waves  of  red-gold  hair  enfolding  her 
head  and  shading  her  ears  and  rippling  off  her 
brow. 

I  gave  a  cry  of  delight.  "It  is  lovely!  How 
clever  you  are !  Do  you  think  I  might  venture  to  go 
down  like  that?" 

"Why,  of  course,  miss.  Nature  itself  does  all 
the  work  of  curling-tongs  for  you,  and  a  thousand 
times  better !" 


168  A   JILT'S   JOURNAL. 

"Does  Lady  Brancepeth  use  tongs  to  make  those 
ripples  ?" 

"Why,  of  course,  miss.  They  all  do.  Your  hair 
would  have  taken  me  half  an  hour,  only  it  waves 
natural." 

I  could  have  laughed  for  triumph,  but  I  bethought 
me  of  dignity.  "Thank  you  very  much  for  your 
trouble.  I  think  I  can  manage  my  dress ;  I've  tried 
it  on,  and  I  know  how  it  fastens." 

She  smiled.  I  could  see  a  little  pity  for  the 
"young  person  unused  to  a  maid"  lurking  in  that 
smile.  But  my  head  sustained  me.  I  should  look 
as  well  coiffured  as  the  Lorely.  That  was  some- 
thing. 

Alas,  poor  Paula!  Her  pride  was  short-lived. 
When  she  went  down  to  dinner — horribly  conscious 
of  that  rustling  dress,  that  unusual  magnificence — 
Lady  Brancepeth  was  in  the  drawing-room  and — 
her  hair  was  done  in  a  totally  different  style. 

No  wonder  the  flippant  maid  had  smiled  at  my 
request.  What  I  had  admired  turned  out  to  be  the 
careless  degagee  mode,  suitable  for  tea-gowns. 

I  went  through  dinner  one  scarlet  blush  of  shame 
and  misery.  Those  turquoise  eyes  were  perpetually 
on  me,  and  I  felt  they  had  read  my  foolish  triumph 
and  were  laughing  at  its  downfall.  The  man  who 
took  me  in  must  have  thought  me  the  stupidest  and 
most  ignorant  girl  he  had  ever  been  told  off  to  en- 
tertain. 

I  simply  couldn't  talk.  As  for  the  theatricals — I 
knew  nothing  of  the  piece  or  its  meaning;  nor  did  it 
interest  me  to  learn  that  Lady  Brancepeth  was  to  do 
a  simply  "rippin'  "  skirt  dance  in  the  third  act. 

The  light  give  and  take  of  social  intercourse  was 
an  unknown  tongue  still.  I  felt  with  a  sort  ol 


A  JILTS   JOURNAL.  lor 

despair  that  I  should  never  learn  it.  The  way  they 
caught  each  other  up,  finished  sentences,  turned 
phrases,  made  the  most  serious  things  a  jest,  be- 
wildered me  to-night  as  much  as  it  had  done  at  the 
luncheon  party. 

At  home  I  was  glib  enough  with  my  tongue.  To 
Adam  Herivale  I  could  talk  with  ease  and  unflagging 
zest,  but  here.  .  .  .  Well,  I  felt  that  the  position  of 
mute  at  a  funeral  would  have  suited  me  equally 

well! 

****** 

I  am  writing  of  all  this  days  after  it  has  hap- 
pened. 

I  can  look  back  now  on  those  days  as  an  educa- 
tion. Safe  in  my  own  home  and  my  own  room  I 
have  spent  half  the  night  with  my  journal.  I  re- 
member so  much  that  I  dare  not  write  half.  I  re- 
member Adam  Herivale  and  that  I  did  sit  beside 
him,  while  the  comedy  rattled  merrily  on,  provoking- 
perpetual  laughter  and  applause,  and  winning  as 
final  verdict  the  assurance — "couldn't  have  been  done 
better  by  'pro's.' '  I  remember  also  my  surprise 
that  he  looked  so  well  in  evening  dress,  and  yet  a 
feeling  that  I  liked  him  better  in  his  tweed  knicker- 
bockers and  rough  Norfolk  jacket.  I  remember 
how  quiet  and  self-restrained  he  was,  and  how  I 
confided  to  him  my  "fish-out-of-water"  feelings. 

And  the  dance  afterward — that  stands  out  as  a 
delight,  though  marred  by  a  perpetual  recollection 
of  the  Lorely's  skirt  dance  in  the  comedy.  What  a 
wonder  she  was !  She  acted  divinely ;  she  danced 
as  if  trained  to  nothing  else.  She  jested,  laughed, 
coquetted  like  a  girl  whose  heart  was  free.  Yet  I 
heard  she  had  two  children,  and  that  one  was  a  con- 
firmed invalid  from  spinal  deformity. 


169  A   JILT'S   JOURNAL. 

Lady  St.  Quinton  told  me  this  in  the  course  of  a 
long  talk  we  had. 

Almost  the  whole  party  left  on  the  day  following 
the  theatricals,  and  I  was  not  sorry  to  hear  the 
Lorely's  "By-bye,  Paula — to  our  next  merry  meet- 
ing. Perhaps  I  shall  find  you've  come  out  of  your 
shell  and  are  the  belle  of  the  season !" 

I  made  no  answer.  But  that  same  night  Lady  St. 
Quinton  came  to  my  bedroom,  while  I  was  undress- 
ing, "for  a  chat,"  she  said. 

The  "chat"  drifted  into  confidences. 

She  gave  me  doses  of  worldly  advice  and  little 
sugar-plums  of  flattery  to  help  them  down.  She 
succeeded  in  making  me  uncomfortable  and  distrust- 
ful, all  in  the  kindest  and  most  sympathetic  way. 
She  told  me  I  had  a  "great  opportunity"  before  me  if 
I  chose  to  grasp  it. 

"You  could  be  an  immense  success  if  you  chose. 
Your  style  is  so  uncommon.  If  you  could  graft  a 
little  of  Lorely's  audacity  on  to  your  beauty,  Lon- 
don would  be  at  your  feet.  You  might  marry  al- 
most any  one.  Men  nowadays  are  mad  for  nov- 
elty!" 

"I  could  never  emulate  Lady  Brancepeth,"  I 
said. 

"Oh,  no !  not  at  once ;  but  you  have  no  idea  how 
easy  it  is  to  catch  up  that  sort  of  manner." 

"It  would  only  make  me  artificial." 

"It  would  be  second  nature  before  long.  You  are 
bright  enough,  and  your  uncle  says  you  are  clever. 
That  should  make  you  adaptable.  Of  course  all  girls 
are  a  little  difficile  at  first,  but  that  soon  wears 
off/' 

"Will  you  tell  me,"  I  asked  her,  "why  it  is  so 
necessary  for  a  girl  to  be  married,  and  why  the 


A   JILT'S   JOURNAL.  169 

bartering  of  herself  for  wealth,  or  rank,  or  social 
position  is  lauded  to  the  skies,  while  if  she  really 
loves  the  man  she  marries  she  is  called  foolish?" 

"Because  marrying  for  love  alone  is  foolish,  unless 
there  is  something  else  behind  it.  Girls  are  always 
romantic,  but  life  isn't.  Far  from  it.  It  is  crammed 
with  duties,  necessities,  obligations.  It  is  most  un- 
wise to  throw  away  a  good  chance  for  sake  of  a 
romantic  fancy." 

"A  good  chance  meaning  marriage — as  the  world 
looks  upon  it  ?" 

"Decidedly.  The  world  is  wiser  than  a  girl's  ex- 
perience. Besides,  she  can  only  acquire  importance, 
influence,  standing,  by  marrying  well.  What  is  the 
use  of  a  suburban  villa,  and  a  pack  of  children,  and 
roast  mutton  every  day?  That  is  mere  existence, 
and  a  very  unpleasant  one.  The  greatest  love 
couldn't  stand  it.  If  you  wish  to  preserve  Love,  my 
dear,  you  must  treat  it  as  an  idyl,  and  give  it  idyllic 
surroundings;  unfortunately,  that's  very  seldom 
possible.  You,  I  think,  are  a  little  inclined  to  take  it 
au  grand  serieux,  as  you  take  most  things.  I  should 
like  you  to  laugh  more  and  think  less.  The  more 
lightly  we  take  life  the  better  it  serves  us.  You 
should  skim  the  cream  and  not  trouble  the  inferior 
milk  below.  You  get  the  best  and  let  who  may 
take  the  other.  Of  course  every  one  can't  get  the 
cream,  but  there's  nothing  to  prevent  your  trying 
for  it.  I'm  telling  you  all  this  because  I  take  a  great 
interest  in  you.  I've  known  your  uncle  for  years, 
and  he  is  getting  to  be  one  of  the  tip-top  men  of  the 
day.  It  seems  a  pity  you  shouldn't  enjoy  life  and 
have  your  fling  like  most  young  creatures.  As  for 
your  question  about  why  girls  should  marry,  I  say 
it  is  the  best  thing  for  most  of  them  to  do;  the 


170  A   JILT'S   JOURNAL. 

thing  for  some.  What  is  an  unmarried  girl  ?  She 
has  no  position.  She  is  simply  one  of  a  picturesque 
crowd  who  look  pretty  and  go  to  balls  and  cost  a 
very  great  deal  of  money.  When  she  passes  twenty 
she  is  looked  upon  as  almost  old.  A  failure  of  three 
seasons  is  no  one's  choice.  She  must  take  a  back 
seat.  Then  she's  ready  to  marry — anybody — even 
a  commercial  man." 

I  laughed.  "What  is  wrong  with  a  commercial 
man?"  I  asked.  "Lady  Archie's  husband  is  only 
that.  And  his  daughter  is  my  greatest  friend." 

"Nothing  wrong,"  she  said  vaguely,  "if  it's  in  a 
big  way,  and  pots  of  money  in  it." 

"I  see.  A  shop  is  a  disgrace,  but  a  wholesale 
warehouse  is  a  distinction." 

"Exactly.  One  needn't  ever  see  the  warehouse. 
It's  in  the  city  somewhere  and  has  large  dealings 
with  foreign  firms,  and  counting-houses,  and  clerks. 
And  it  means  money." 

"And  anything  that  means  money  is  accepted  by 
the  world." 

"It  is  the  biggest  power  in  it,"  she  said  gravely. 
"Think  of  the  Rothschilds,  the  Vanderbilts,  the 
Pullmans — why,  they  could  pension  off  our  aristoc- 
racy and  be  none  the  worse  for  it." 

"Are  they  any  happier,  I  wonder?" 

"Happiness  is  a  vague  thing,  child.  It  has  no  dis- 
tinct meaning.  Every  one  interprets  it  as  they 
choose.  It  is  largely  a  matter  of  temperament,  for 
what  would  make  one  person  happy  wouldn't  affect 
another  in  the  least.  To  one  mind  it  is  success,  to 
another  love,  to  another  power.  To  some  women 
the  supreme  distinction  of  being  the  most  popular, 
or  the  best  dressed,  of  her  set." 

"These  things  only  express  a  very  inferior  sort  of 


A   JILT'S   JOURNAL.  171 

happiness,"  I  said.     "Nothing  to  satisfy  the  soul  or 
the  mind." 

"The  seat  of  happiness  is  supposed  to  lie  in  the 
heart.  I  did  mention — love." 

"Then  if  there  is  a  love  that  gives  happiness  it 
must  be  the  best  foundation  for  marriage." 

"Love  is  only  a  sentiment.     It  passes." 

"It  has  been  a  sentiment  strong  enough  to  bring- 
out  the  best  forces  of  humanity,"  I  said.  "To  over- 
come even  the  fear  of  death.  Look  at  the  story  of 
Juliet." 

"Her  love  was  purely  a  thing  of  temperament, 
passion,  emotion,  abandonment.  That  sort  of  love, 
my  dear,  makes  a  beautiful  story,  but  it's  no  good  in 
real  life.  Even  the  poets  and  dramatists  recognize 
that,  so  they  bury  it  among  roses,  and  water  it  with 
tears.  They  know  it  would  never  stand  the  wear 
and  tear  of  everyday  existence.  Romantic  love  is 
based  solely  on  illusion.  Neither  the  man  nor  the 
woman  really  are  what  they  think  each  other.  Bet- 
ter a  thousand  times  to  die,  or  to  part,  before  the 
cold  smile  of  reality  gives  the  lie  to  fancied  per- 
fection." 

"That  sounds  horribly  cruel." 

"It  sounds  what  it  is,  child,  believe  me.  If  you 
entertain  those  fanciful,  poetical  ideas,  which  most 
girls  do  entertain,  you  will  be  most  assuredly  dis- 
illusioned unless  you  and  your  lover  take  refuge  on 
a  desert  island.  Even  then  you  would  bore  each 
other  to  death  in  a  twelvemonth." 

******* 

She  said  a  great  deal  more  on  the  same  subject, 
but  the  main  part  of  the  argument  was  always  the 
same.  I  knew  that  her  cynical  speeches  were  onl}r 
the  parrot  phrases  of  her  world.  I  was  learning 


172  A   JILT'S   JOURNAL. 

them  rapidly  myself.  I  began  to  think  they  were 
not  meant  for  truths — only  the  assuming  of  a  heart- 
lessness  that  seemed  the  fashion. 

I  had  partaken  of  doses  of  these  cynical  little 
pleasantries  during  my  three  days'  stay  at  the  Court. 

I  was  quite  sure  Lady  St.  Ouinton  meant  kindly. 
She  had  promised  to  "bring  me  out"  and  she  did 
not  desire  her  ingenue  to  pose  as  quite  an  ignoramus. 
Above  all  she  wished  me  to  entertain  no  prejudices. 
I  must  accept  the  world  at  its  best,  its  seeming  best, 
and  do  credit  to  my  chaperon.  If  not,  I  should 
probably  be  left  to  rust  in  this  small  corner  of  seclu- 
sion for  the  rest  of  my  days. 

I  thought  of  that  corner  even  as  I  wrote.  I 
thought  of  quiet  years,  of  grave  studies  and  simple 
interests,  of  human  love  and  kindliness  and  peace. 
Were  these  not  better  things  than  social  success,  a 
heartless  marriage,  the  praise  of  worldly-minded 
women,  the  doubtful  flatteries  of  men  such  as  Lord 
Brancepeth,  or  Captain  Jim? 

For  alas !  Captain  Jim  had  toppled  off  his  pedes- 
tal. I  had  heard  things  which,  to  my  ignorant  ears, 
sounded  odious.  Had  been  told  that  he  was  the 
Lorely's  bond-slave,  and  she  would  not  allow  him 
to  pay  attention  to  any  other  woman  if  she  knew  of 
it.  That  he  had  had  to  exchange  his  regiment  and 
go  abroad  because  he  had  allowed  himself  to  be  half 
ruined  by  her  extravagances.  It  all  sounded  very 
horrible,  and  very  wrong,  but  people  had  said  it,  and 
had  said  it  suited  "Bobby"  to  wink  the  eye,  as  he 
couldn't  afford  a  "show-up"  any  more  than  herself. 

Women  hadn't  scrupled  to  talk  before  me,  and 
Lady  St.  Quinton  had  been  very  confidential. 

"We've  all  got  to  take  a  mud  bath  some  time  or 
other,"  she  had  said.  "It's  best  to  get  it  over  when 


A   JILT'S   JOURNAL.  173 

we're  young.  They  say  that  that  man  makes  the 
best  doctor  who  turned  sick  on  the  first  introduction 
to  the  dissecting-room.  I  suppose  we  are  the  better 
also  for  getting  rid  of  our  natural  squeamishness. 
The  mind  offers  us  a  dissecting-room  as  well  as  the 

body.     It  has  as  many  diseases — and  impurities." 
****** 

"I  wanted  to  know  all  about  it,"  says  Paula  to 
herself — a  tired  and  somewhat  disgusted  Paula — 
laying  down  her  pen  and  turning  over  the  scribbled 
pages  of  her  journal.  "I  wanted  to  know,  and  I 
must  know.  There  must  be  a  better  side  to  society 
— I  shall  look  for  it.  To  women,  to  men — I  must 
find  it.  True,  these  women  are  nearly  double  my 
age,  and  experience  holds  no  closed  pages  for  them, 
but  then  they  have  commenced  in  a  groove  and 
stuck  to  it.  But  there  is  no  absolute  necessity  to 
stick  in  a  groove;  one  can  claim  freedom  of  limb 
and  thought." 

Paula  grows  mightily  independent  in  her  soli- 
tude, and  draws  pictures  of  moral  strength  and 
moral  emancipation  that  are  perfect  works  of  art ! 

Paula — visionary,  self-centred — gazes  into  the 
glowing  coals  and  sees  there  images  of  life  as  it  will 
be;  as  she  means  to  make  it.  And  it  seems  to  her 
that  the  heart  of  youth  is  capable  of  anything,  even 
as  the  face  of  youth  gives  the  lie  to  art  and  artifice. 

Had  not  the  Lorely  herself  said  in  that  comedy — 
"Youth! — •  That's  what  women  hate  most  in 
others  when  they've  lost  it  themselves.  It's  the  one 
thing  they  can't  compete  with.  The  one  thing  that 
is  real.  It  gives  their  complexions  the  lie  and  their 
lovers  the  truth!  It  mocks  at  washes  and  creams 
and  face-powders,  and  points  audaciously  to  the 
genuine  thing !" 


174=  A   JILT'S   JOURNAL. 

Well,  Paula  has  "the  genuine  thing"  as  yet.  How 
long  will  it  last  ? 

What  says  Fenella  on  that  point  ? 

"The  dew  on  the  grass,  the  bloom  on  the  grape, 
the  lark's  first  song  of  rapture,  the  spring's  first  day 
— these  mean  youth,  and  only  these.  So  brief  their 

beauty;  so  soon  they  are — not." 

****** 

A  long  letter  from  Lesley  came  by  the  last  post 
rnd  it  is  still  unread.  I  am  too  much  taken  up  with 
all  I  have  myself  undergone,  too  much  startled  at 
the  transformation  from  schoolroom  to  social  train- 
ing, too  much  absorbed  in  wondering  and  dreaming, 
to  enter  into  the  confidences  of  my  friend.  Already 
she  has  ceased  to  be  everything.  Already  my  heart 
craves  more  than  a  girl's  affection  and  sympathy. 
It  is  as  if  from  some  immeasurable  distance  a  hand 
stretched  itself  and  touched  my  heart  and  my  brow. 
The  touch  is  cold,  and  makes  me  afraid. 

And  a  voice  from  that  immeasurable  somewhere 
speaks  to  me  out  of  the  silence. 

"When  the  woman-soul  is  born,"  it  says — noth- 
ing more.  Only  that.  I  shall  have  to  wait  for  the 
rest. 

How  long,  I  wonder? 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

"Is  spring  here?"  I  asked  myself  on  a  morning 
ushered  in  by  a  full-throated  chorus  of  birds  outside 
my  window. 

It  had  dallied  so  long  with  its  coming.  Had 
thrust  forth  here  a  bud  on  the  hedge-rows,  there 
a  rosy  blossom  on  the  chestnut  boughs,  now  a  glow 
of  flooding  sunlight,  then  a  nipping  wind  to  counter- 
act them  all,  that  I  hardly  trusted  this  new  promise, 
even  as  I  feasted  my  eyes  upon  it. 

"Poor  things  that  live  in  towns,"  I  thought,  "and 
miss  the  march  of  the  seasons!  The  expanse  of 
such  a  sky  as  I  look  out  upon,  the  rapturous  greet- 
ing of  birds  amongst  a  cluster  of  blooms,  the  flood 
of  sunshine  like  molten  fire  let  loose,  the  sudden 
understanding  of  Nature's  face  as  it  smiles  'Good 
morrow.' ' 

Wide  open  was  my  window,  wide  open  eyes  and 
ears  and  senses  to  the  message  of  the  spring,  wide 
open,  too,  the  doors  of  my  heart,  for  life  was  at  its 
spring  for  me.  I  was  happy  because  I  was  alive, 
because  the  world  was  beautiful,  because  I  knew 
naught  of  sorrow,  because  before  me  there,  rippled  a 
silver  stream  whose  name  was  Hope,  and  every 
ripple  was  a  promise.  The  perfume  of  wallflowers 
and  violets  came  up  to  me,  the  daffodils  were  sway- 
ing on  their  long,  green  stalks.  A  faint  mist  of 
green  was  everywhere,  through  which  the  sunlight 
filtered.  Spring  had  come  at  last ! 

175 


176  A   JILTS   JOUENAL. 

It  was  early — scarcely  six  o'clock — but  the  invi- 
tation of  the  day  was  not  to  be  declined.  I  accepted 
it  without  question,  dressed  and  left  the  house  ere 
even  Graddage  the  virtuous  had  opened  door  or 
window. 

The  sap  of  spring  was  surely  in  my  veins,  for  my 
feet  danced  along  the  field  path,  and  I  could  have 
sung  as  the  lark  sang  for  joy  of  living  in  the  beau- 
tiful world. 

I  took  the  road  to  Quinton  Lacy,  partly  because 
it  was  so  good  a  one,  partly  because  I  loved  that  bit 
where  the  old,  old  elms  had  made  an  avenue,  and  the 
castle  could  be  seen  between  its  two  protecting  hills. 
I  leaned  against  a  wooden  gate  and  looked  over  the 
wide  fields,  faintly  green  with  coming  crops,  faintly 
gold  with  buttercups  and  dandelions.  The  gray 
stone  roofs  and  walls  of  Scarffe  looked  up  as  ever  to 
their  ruined  monarch  on  his  lonely  throne.  The 
dun-colored  hills  were  brown,  and  a  white  road 
wound  around  and  about  and  over  them  to  the  sea- 
coast  beyond. 

How  beautiful  it  all  was!  How  homely  and  safe 
and  pleasant  looked  the  little  gray  village  amidst  its 
sheltering  hills!  My  stay  here  could  be  measured 
by  months  now,  but  I  was  in  no  way  weary  of  it. 
On  this  April  day  I  seemed  to  have  awakened  to  a 
new  charm  in  the  quaint  old  place,  a  new  beauty  in 
the  now  familiar  landscape.  As  I  stood  there  look- 
ing at  it,  I  threw  a  hasty  glance  back  on  these  past 
months,  and  wondered  what  had  made  their  un- 
eventfulness  eventful. 

I  had  learnt  to  know  the  country  east  to  west,  and 
north  to  south.  My  guide  had  been — Adam  Heri- 
vale.  I  had  learnt  to  skate,  and  ride,  and  drive. 
My  teacher? — Adam  Herivale.  I  had  had  pleasant 


A   JILT'S   JOURNAL.  177 

teas  in  the  old  farmhouse  parlor,  long,  quiet  talks, 
learnt  homely  lessons  from  the  lips  of  the  mother  of 
— Adam  Herivale. 

I  stopped  short  and  asked  myself  whether  this 
recital  wasn't  getting  rather  like  the  "house  that 
Jack  built."  Thought,  too,  with  some  sense  of  sur- 
prise, that  I  must  have  taken  up  a  great  deal  of  this 
same  Adam  Herivale's  time  and  attention.  The 
very  horse  he  had  trained  for  a  lady's  riding  was  at 
my  service  whenever  I  wished.  Its  owner,  my 
escort  also,  whenever  I  wished.  Did  I  need  to  go  to 
the  market  town,  to  climb  the  highest  hill,  or  ex- 
plore the  quarries,  or  find  the  best  views,  it  was 
Adam  Herivale  who  happened  to  be  driving  to  the 
said  town,  or  had  an  afternoon  free  for  such  ex- 
ploring. 

In  fact,  hardly  a  day  passed  but  that  we  met 
somewhere,  and  the  habit  of  these  meetings  had  be- 
come second  nature,  so  that  I  often  found  myself 
looking  forward  to  them  as  a  matter  of  course,  even 
as  I  exacted  or  accepted  all  forms  of  service,  also  as 
a  matter  of  course. 

No  one  seemed  to  think  any  harm  of  it — even 
Lady  St.  Quinton,  who  kept  a  chaperoning  eye  on 
me  at  times.  But  she  had  rarely  seen  us  together, 
and  when  I  mentioned  his  attentions,  laughed,  and 
said  it  was  "good  practice"  for  me  before  I  tried  my 
powers  elsewhere. 

I  kept  my  journal  very  irregularly  now,  and  my 
letters  to  Claire  and  Lesley  were  much  shorter,  as 
indeed  were  theirs  to  me.  My  time  seemed  fully 
occupied.  I  kept  up  my  music.  I  read  a  great  deal 
— the  Court  library  was  almost  encyclopaedic — I 
rode  or  walked  every  day,  when  the  weather  was 
fine.  I  lunched  often  at  the  Court,  and  sometimes 


178  A   JILT'S   JOURNAL. 

spent  from  Saturday  to  Monday  there.  I  lured  the 
professor  from  his  study  every  evening  to  listen  to 
my  music,  or  teach  me  chess,  of  which  I  discovered 
he  was  very  fond.  I  worried  Graddage,  and  amused 
myself  with  Merrieless,  and  in  fact  was  as  happy  as 
any  healthy,  heart-free  girl  could  reasonably  expect 
to  be. 

Was  I  still  speculative  as  to  the  meaning  of 
things  and  their  bearing  on  life?  Did  I  still  play  at 
being  Paula,  and  interest  my  mind  over  the  dawn- 
ing possibilities  of  her  nature?  I  am  afraid  I  must 
plead  guilty.  The  habit  of  introspection  was  as 
strong  as  ever,  but  my  ignorance  of  life  had  given 
place  to  a  limited  knowledge  of  its  many-sidedness, 
drawn  partly  from  books,  partly  from  the  admis- 
sions of  the  people  who  made  up  my  circle  of  ac- 
quaintances. A  queer  mixture  they  were. 

The  professor,  Lady  St.  Quinton,  Adam  Heri- 
vale's  mother,  Adam  himself,  his  father  and  sisters, 
old  Gregory  and  young  Gregory,  Merrieless  and 
Graddage.  Last  of  all,  I  learnt  from  the  letters  of 
Claire,  who  was  "finishing"  in  Paris,  and  those  of 
Lesley  Heath,  who  had  become  a  young  woman  of 
fashion ! 

This  morning  I  reviewed  my  teachers  and  my 
lessons,  and  asked  myself  what  benefit  I  had  derived 
from  either. 

But  the  sunlight  danced  on  the  fields,  the  leaves 
laughed  to  the  wind's  touch,  the  birds  sang  on  high 
in  praise  of  spring,  and — I  did  not  wait  for  the  an- 
swer. Off  I  sped  again,  up  the  hill,  past  more  gray 
stone  cottages,  the  almshouse,  the  old  inn  with  the 
St.  Quinton  Arms  swinging  on  its  sign,  to  the  left 
again  and  into  the  old  churchyard,  where  the  grave- 
stones were  leaning  at  all  angles,  and  where  weeds 


A   JILT'S   JOURNAL.  179 

and  nettles  grew  in  every  corner.  From  the  high- 
est point  one  could  see  the  sea,  deeply  blue,  smooth 
as  a  mirror;  the  white  cliffs  and  green,  pine-clad 
heights. 

I  perched  myself  upon  the  low  stone  wall  and 
looked  around.  From  the  far-off  sea  to  the  quiet, 
old  stones,  holding  dumb,  distorted  faces  up  to  the 
serene  heavens,  my  eyes  wandered.  In  this  grass- 
grown  place  lay  those  who  had  looked  on  this  same 
scene,  felt  the  lovely  warmth  of  this  same  sun.  The 
stones  were  old  and  moss-covered,  the  names  on 
most  of  them  almost  undecipherable.  Near  to  me 
one  of  them  bore  a  hand  with  a  finger  pointing 
heavenward.  It  set  me  musing  on  faiths  and  re- 
ligions, and  the  multiplication  of  sects  that  religion 
has  created. 

Had  Christ  said  "In  my  Father's  house  are  many 
mansions"  from  a  prophetic  knowledge  of  such 
sects  and  their  manifold  doctrines?  For  mansions 
must  have  doors,  and  if  every  sect  taught  that  its 
own  particular  formula  was  the  only  door  to 
heaven,  why,  the  need  of  many  entrances  was  ex- 
plained. 

Graddage,  for  instance,  took  the  most  gloomy 
view  of  religion.  To  her  it  was  a  thing  of  stripes 
and  scourges,  and  heart-scorching  and  bewailing,  of 
constant  conviction  of  sin  and  backslidings.  Piety 
with  her  was  a  moral  purgatory.  She  courted  suf- 
fering as  others  court  peace.  Her  sins  and  the  sins 
of  those  around  her  were  ever  present  to  her  mind, 
and  seemed  the  only  food  that  sustained  her  soul. 
She  was  much  given  to  prayer,  and  on  a  wet  or  cold 
Sunday  would  treat  Merrieless  and  myself  to  a 
home-service  conducted  by  herself.  It  seemed  to 
me,  however,  that  her  prayers  were  the  sort  that  ad- 


180  A   JILT'S   JOURNAL. 

minister  a  pinch  of  advice  to  the  Deity,  even  while 
they  supplicate  him.  She  always  knew  what  she 
wanted,  and  what  others  lacked,  and  took  very  good 
care  to  mention  both. 

From  the  sea  my  eyes  roved  over  the  leaning 
stones,  and  I  read  the  inscriptions  with  some  amuse- 
ment. 

Someone  has  said  that  "Graveyards  are  the 
devil's  jest-book."  I  agree  with  him. 

Such  catalogues  of  virtues,  such  assurances  of 
eternal  joy  and  reward,  such  preternatural  piety, 
such  a  curious  medley  of  texts  and  lyrics  —  truly 
they  were  more  capable  of  arousing  mirth  than  con- 
vincing reason ! 

The  old  church  was  not  used  for  service  now.  A 
new  one,  imposing  and  worthy  of  the  ritual  that  it 
called  Matins,  and  Evensong,  and  Holy  Celebration, 
had  been  recently  built.  It  stood  on  the  hill  over- 
looking the  village,  even  as  it  overlooked  its  humble 
predecessor;  seeming  to  say,  "You  are  only  parish 
— I  am  the  thing !" 

I  got  off  my  perch  presently,  and  wandered  round 
the  forsaken  edifice. 

Rooks  were  cawing  in  the  tower,  the  stone  walls 
were  yellow  with  lichen  and  green  with  patches  of 
moss.  It  looked  very  desolate  even  in  this  warm 
sunshine.  As  desolate  as  age  must  always  look  and 
feel,  it  seemed  to  me,  when  life  could  mean  nothing 
more  but  "waiting"  for  what  would  end  life.  I 
paused  a  moment  beside  a  tiny  mound.  How  very 
small  it  was!  It  had  no  stone  to  give  it  signifi- 
cance, only  upon  the  green  turf  lay  a  little  cross 
made  of  two  twigs.  I  wondered  what  hand  had 
laid  them  there  to  mark  an  unnamed  resting- 
place. 


A  JILT'S   JOURNAL.  181 

A  touch  of  sadness  dimmed  for  me  the  spring 
warmth,  the  glad  and  golden  morning.  What  had 
this  little  life  done  that  it  should  have  been  so 
quickly  eclipsed  ?  Why  had  the  heart  that  loved  it 
been  left  mourning? 

Those  other  grassy  hillocks  without  stone  or  sign 
had  not  aroused  my  interest,  but  this  small,  name- 
less spot,  with  that  roughly  twined  cross  laid  upon 
it,  held  a  story  of  its  own.  I  stood  so  long  beside 
it,  that  I  wrote  one  in  my  own  mind.  I  daresay  it 
was  widely  different  from  the  original. 

The  loud  crowing  of  a  cock,  the  sound  of  wheels, 
the  voices  of  carters  and  farm  folk  showed  me  that 
the  village  was  astir,  and  I  began  to  think  of  getting 
home.  With  brisk  walking  I  could  just  do  it  by 
breakfast-time.  I  opened  the  gate,  and  went  out  to 
the  stir  and  bustle  of  wakening  life  around. 

The  cottage  doors  were  open ;  children  ran  to  and 
fro  to  the  pump,  or  tumbled  over  the  doorsteps,  or 
mingled  with  roaming  poultry  and  foolish,  barking 
puppies.  The  lovely  sunshine  rained  its  gold  upon 
them  all.  The  sky  smiled  its  welcome.  I  nodded 
"good-mornings"  as  I  walked  down  the  street.  So 
many  of  them  knew  me  by  sight,  seeing  me  driving 
to  the  Court,  or  coming  over  from  Scarffe  for  the 
Sunday  services. 

I  reached  home  just  as  the  breakfast  bell  was 
sounding  and  found  the  professor  sunning  himself 
on  the  doorstep.  I  told  him  where  I  had  been.  "It 
would  have  done  you  good  to  come  too,"  I  added. 
"Such  a  heavenly  morning  as  this  makes  one  con- 
tent only  to  be  alive  and  know  one  is." 

We  went  in  to  breakfast.  Beside  my  plate  lay  a 
letter.  I  saw  it  was  from  Lady  St.  Quinton.  I 
poured  out  the  tea,  and  then  opened  it. 


182  A   JILT'S   JOURNAL. 

"Mv  DEAR  PAULA: — I  intend  to  go  to  Uondon 
next  week.  Tell  me  you  will  be  able  to  accom- 
pany me." 

"Next  week !"  I  exclaimed  involuntarily. 

The  professor  looked  up.  "What  about  next 
week?"  he  asked. 

"Lady  St.  Quinton  wants  me  to  go  up  to  London 
with  her." 

"There  is  no  reason  why  you  should  not  do  so." 

"No — of  course  not.  Only  it  is  so  much  sooner 
than  I  expected.  And  just  as  the  country  is  getting 
so  lovely,"  I  added  regretfully. 

"You  will  find  a  few  troes  in  London,"  he  said; 
"and  flowers  also.  You  will  soon  be  consoled,  my 
dear,  for  what  you  leave  behind." 

"I  don't  believe  you  are  a  bit  sorry  to  lose  me  for 
three  whole  months,"  I  said,  looking  at  him.  "You 
will  be  just  as  happy  wifh  Graddage  as  with  Paula." 

"No,  my  child,"  he  r.nswered,  "I  shall  not.  You 
have  changed  the  routine  of  my  life  for  me;  and  I 
shall  always  miss  you — now.  But  I  cannot  sacri- 
fice your  youth  to  my  old  age  and  monotonous  hab- 
its. Perhaps,  my  dear,  you  may  not  find  the  world 
all  you  expect.  You  may  even  grow  tired  of  it  and 
be  glad  to  come  back  to  this  quiet  refuge.  It  will 
always  be  ready  for  you,  Paula — whatever  betides." 

I  left  my  place  and  went  up  and  put  my  arms 
round  his  neck. 

"I  almost  think,"  I  said,  "that  you  are  a  little  bit 
fond  of  this  troublesome,  vain  and  frivolous  Paula, 
who  plagues  you  so.  A  little — very  little  bit?" 

"Yes,"  he  said  with  a  grave  smile,  "a — very — 
little  bit.  She  has  found  that  out,  as  she  will  find 
out  many  other  things!" 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

THE  old  ruins  were  bathed  in  moonlight ;  a  clear, 
translucent  flood  of  moonlight  that  set  them  like 
carved  ivory  against  their  darker  background.  Out 
to  them  I  felt  I  must  go,  and  out  to  them  I  went. 

Now — I  tell  myself  I  am  desperately  sorry,  for 
this  is  what  happened.  I  must  write  it  down.  It 
is  an  event,  a  landmark  on  that  road  on  which  my 
wilful  feet  are  set.  A  landmark  on  which  Paula 

sheds  the  tears  of  a  first  regret. 

****** 

The  night  was  warm  and  the  air  sweet  with 
scents  of  spring.  I  passed  through  the  street  on 
my  way  to  the  castle,  and  soon  stood  below  its  ivied 
towers,  listening  to  the  babble  of  the  stream,  the 
rush  of  the  water  that  once  had  filled  the  moat. 

And  suddenly  there  strode  through  the  shadowy 
spaces  a  tall  figure,  and  a  familiar  voice  gave  me 
greeting. 

"I  had  to  come  out,"  I  said.  "I  couldn't  help  it. 
Such  a  night;  isn't  it  glorious?" 

"Yes,"  he  said  quietly,  "most  beautiful.  I,  too, 
found  indoors  was  not  the  best  place.  I  wonder  if 
you  have  noticed  that  I  haven't  seen  you  for  two 
days?" 

"Haven't  you?"  I  said.  "Well,  very  soon  you 
won't  see  me  for  whole  weeks,  and  whole  months, 
so  it's  well  to  get  used  to  it." 

He  made  no  reply  for  a  moment  or  two. 

183 


184  A   JILT'S   JOURNAL. 

"I'm  going  up  to  London  next  week,"  I  added; 
"sooner  than  I  expected." 

"And  you  are — glad?"  he  asked.  "Of  course; 
your  voice  says  it.  What  else  should  you  be?" 

"Exactly — what  else?  Haven't  I  longed  and 
planned  and  thought  and  dreamt  of  it  all  this  time  ? 
Of  course  I  didn't  expect  to  go  quite  so  soon,  but 
Lady  St.  Quinton  says  my  dresses  will  take  some 
time  to  get  ready — so  we  are  off  next  week." 

"Will  you  walk  round  by  the  old  mill  road  with 
me?"  he  asked  suddenly.  "I  have  a  message  to 
leave  at  Widow  Vye's.  I  should  have  gone  this 
afternoon,  but  hadn't  time.  It's  not  above  half  a 
mile." 

"I  know — that  sweet,  old  cottage  with  the  red 
berries  growing  over  it.  Some  people  say  she's  the 
oldest  woman  in  Scarffe." 

"Yes,  she's  ninety-two,  and  has  never  been  out  of 
the  place  in  her  life." 

"Gracious!  I  should  call  that  stagnation;  and 
don't  they  say  queer  things  about  her?  That  she's 
got  second  sight  and  can  tell  fortunes  by  cards? 
Merrieless  told  me  so." 

"It  doesn't  do  to  believe  the  country  gossips,"  he 
answered.  "She's  a  queer-looking  old  thing  and  a 
very  fair  representative  of  a  witch,  as  we  think  of 
witches,  but  I  don't  fancy  there's  any  harm  in 
her." 

We  had  turned  from  the  bridge  and  taken  the 
road  at  the  base  of  the  hill.  The  moonlight  was  so 
radiant  that  we  seemed  to  walk  on  whiteness ;  every 
leaf  shone  like  a  jewel,  and  the  rose  and  gold  of 
blossoms  wore  their  colors  as  by  day. 

"It  might  be  June,"  I  said,  looking  starward  and 
drawing  a  deep  breath  of  fragrance;  the  air  was 


A   JILT'S   JOURNAL.  185 

heavy  with  it — chestnut  and  hawthorn,  wallflower 
and  elder-bush,  primroses  and  hidden  violets. 

"Oh,  isn't  it  lovely — lovely — lovely!  Like  bath- 
ing in  dew  and  moonlight,  with  all  the  fresh  scents 
of  spring  thrown  in !" 

"Your  feet  almost  dance,"  he  said.  "I  suppose 
you  are  perfectly  happy,  Miss — Paula?" 

He  still  hesitated  between  the  use  of  Christian  or 
surname,  though  I  had  frankly  dubbed  him  "Adam" 
since  the  skating  days. 

"Happy?  I  should  think  so!  I  have  everything 
I  want,  and  everything  to  look  forward  to." 

"And  yet,"  he  said  slowly,  as  he  met  my  eyes, 
"do  you  know  you  made  me  think  just  now  of 
what  Savage  Landor  meant  by  'That  sad  word 
—joy/  " 

"Sad!—    What  a  paradox!" 

"It-  needs  some  thinking :  but,  though  I  can't  ex- 
press it,  I  can  feel  the  meaning.  You  will  too—- 
some day." 

A  sudden  memory  of  that  morning  and  the 
churchyard  came  to  me,  and  I  saw  again  the  little, 
lonely  grave  and  the  cross  of  twisted  hawthorn 
twigs.  A  momentary  shadow  fell  across  the  road, 
and  my  dancing  feet  grew  quiet. 

"I  never  thought  of  'joy'  as  a  sad  word.  But — 
I  suppose  there  is  another  meaning  to  it." 

"Or  to  whom  we  apply  it." 

"Adam,"  I  said  irrelevantly,  "I  was  up  and  out 
before  six  o'clock  this  morning.  Where  do  you 
think  I  went?" 

"I  cannot  tell — not  there?"  glancing  up  at  the 
castle. 

"Oh,  no;  quite  away.  To  the  old  church  of 
Quinton  Lacy." 


Ig6  A   JILT'S   JOURNAL. 

"A  strange,  dreary  place  to  choose  on  a  spring 
morning,"  he  said. 

"I  like  contrasts.  The  difference  between  that 
acre  of  the  dead,  and  the  miles  of  spreading  woods 
and  fields  and  sea,  was  just  what  I  needed  to  check 
a  too  great  love  of  life.  Once  they  had  been  as  I 
was;  one  day  I  shall  be  as  they  are.  I  stood  for  a 
long  time  by  a  tiny  little  mound — it  seemed  new. 
What  struck  me  about  it  was  that  someone — the 
mother,  I  suppose — had  made  a  little  cross  out  of 
twigs  and  laid  it  on  the  grass.  Nothing  else.  No 
name,  no  flower,  just  the  cross." 

"That — touched  you?"  he  asked. 

"It  made  me  think,  Adam.  Made  me  remember 
that  life  may  be  very  short  as  well  as  very  long — 
incomplete,  as  well  as  satisfied." 

"Would  you  like  to  know  the  history  of  that  little 
grave?"  he  asked.  "It  is  a  very  simple  one." 

"Yes;  tell  me." 

"The  child,"  he  said,  "was  but  a  year  old.  The 
mother  a  dairy  hand  on  our  farm.  She  fell  in  love 
with  a  soldier,  a  recruiting  sergeant ;  he  was  looking 
about  for  likely  men  to  draft  into  the  army.  She 
was  very  pretty,  and  very  vain.  I  don't  know  what 
tale  he  made  her  believe.  She  told  my  mother  they 
were  married,  but  that  her  husband  had  been  or- 
dered abroad.  I  never  caught  sight  of  him  after 
the  mischief  was  done.  A  little  child  was  born — 
and  from  that  hour  the  mother  changed;  pined, 
drooped,  died.  W^e  took  care  of  the  little  one,  but 
suddenly  the  life  seemed  withering  in  it  also.  Per- 
haps 'twas  its  mother  it  needed.  Nature  has  won- 
derful ways,  Miss  Paula.  But,  anyway,  we  couldn't 
rear  it,  and — it  followed  her.  Tis  its  grave  you 
saw." 


A   JILT'S   JOURNAL.  187 

"But  who  put  the  cross  on  it?"  I  asked,  looking 
up  at  his  face,  and  wondering  at  its  gravity. 

"Maybe  a  friend,"  he  said  quietly. 

"Adam !"  I  cried,  "I  know.     It  was  you." 

"There's  no  harm  in  that,  is  there,  Miss — Paula  ? 
Perhaps  'twould  hurt  the  poor  soul  to  know  that  no 
one  gave  a  thought  to  the  babe,  even  though  I  hope 
and  trust  'tis  safe  in  her  arms  once  more.  For  God 
couldn't  part  love  like  that,  though  man  made  sconi 
of  it." 

"Scorn!"  I  repeated. 

"Perhaps  'tisn't  the  sort  of  story  I  should  be  tell- 
ing you,  Miss — Paula,  but  the  man  was  bad ;  a  liar 
and — worse.  Dolly  wasn't  his  wife.  He  was  a 
married  man." 

I  felt  my  face  flame.  "Is  it  possible  that  any 
man  could  be  so  wicked?" 

"I'm  afraid  there's  plenty  o'  that  sort  o'  wicked- 
ness going  about,"  said  Adam,  gravely.  "All  the 
world  over  it  spreads;  among  the  great  as  among 
the  humble ;  among  the  rich  as  among  the  poor." 

I  was  silent  for  a  space.  "Adam,"  I  said  sud- 
denly, "if  I  had  never  liked  you  before  I  should  like 
you  for  that  thought  of  the  little,  dead  child.  It 
shows  you  have  a  kind  heart." 

Impulsively  I  stopped  and  held  out  my  hand.  He 
took  it,  and  his  eyes  flashed  with  a  new  light. 

"Don't  be  saying  such  tender  words  to  me,  or  I 
mayn't  be  strong  enough  to  hold  back  what  that 
heart's  so  full  of,"  he  said  huskily.  "Full  to  over- 
flowing— full  to  the  uttermost  meaning  of  what  you 
call — tenderness.  And  I  know  I  mustn't  speak — I 
daren't.  You  must  know  life  first  before  you'll 
learn  the  true  meaning  o'  love" 

"Love !"  I  said.     My  heart  gave  a  sudden,  quick 


188  A   JILT'S   JOURNAL. 

throb.  The  stars  and  the  radiant  night  whirled 
dizzily.  The  scales  fell  from  my  eyes  at  last,  and  I 
knew  into  what  I  had  been  drifting. 

A  pall  of  shyness,  coldness,  distaste  fell  over  me 
and  all  the  natural  joy  that  had  held  me  hitherto.  I 
didn't  want — this.  Joy  of  youth,  of  life,  of  all  that 
Nature  painted  for  my  soul's  delight,  these  I  needed, 
but  not — love.  Not  what  I  saw  in  a  man's  eyes,  a 
man's  face  —  something  imperative,  demanding, 
compelling. 

I  shrank  back  in  a  sort  of  terror.  So  may  a  child 
shrink  back  when  the  match,  carelessly  thrown,  kin- 
dles a  blaze  that  will  devour  a  household.  It  seemed 
as  if  every  force  within  me  rose  to  repel  this  unde- 
sired  assault.  Fancy,  imagination,  romance,  all  the 
flimsy  web  I  had  woven  around  my  friendship  for 
Adam  Herivale  lay  in  tatters  about  my  clinging 
arms;  but  those  arms  would  not  relinquish  their 
hold.  They  strove  desperately  to  wind  the  tattered 
shreds  around  an  image  of  self-respect.  They 
clothed  coldness  with  an  airy  grace. 

"Yes,"  I  said  eagerly,  "it  is  life  only  I  want  to 
know.  Nothing  else,  Adam." 

His  face  lost  that  fevered  glow,  and  grew  calm 
and  quiet  as  of  old. 

"Nothing  else,"  he  echoed.  "But  the  meanings 
of  life  are  many.  One  by  one  you  learn  them  only 
to  wish  you  had  never  learnt.  For  all  that  they 
give  is  nothing  to  what  they  take.  The  best  things, 
the  pure  dreams,  the  happy,  sinless  days,  the  love  of 
God  and  Nature.  The  faith  in  what  is  best  in  man 
or  woman.  Oh,  Paula !  if  you  gain  the  world  and 
lose  these — you  are  beggared — and  •  my  heart  is 
broken." 

"I  should  be  sorry,"  I  said,  "to  hurt  you,  Adam, 


»!  JILT'S  JOURNAL.  189 

in  any  way.  We  have  been  such  good  friends.  I 
am  content  to  be  that — but  nothing  more.  It  never 
entered  my  head  that  you  would  want  us  to  be 
different." ' 

"Because  you  think  I  am  not  your  equal  socially." 

"No,  I  never  gave  that  a  moment's  consideration. 
Because  I  don't  want  to  love,  or  hear  about  love,  or 
be  troubled  with  lovers.  Not  yet — not  ever,  per- 
haps. It  means  so  much." 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "it  means  pretty  nigh  every- 
thing." 

We  walked  on  to  the  echo  of  that  sigh  of  his. 
And  the  sweet,  white,  magical  world  had  a  shadow 

on  it  now,  and  Paula's  feet  no  longer  danced. 
##*#*# 

One  thing  more  I  must  write  here  before  I  close 
my  journal  to-night. 

We  reached  the  old  woman's  cottage  very  soon 
after  those  last  words;  reached  it  without  breaking 
silence.  An  old  tumble-down  place  it  was.  A 
stream  divided  it  from  the  roadway,  and  a  wooden 
plank  served  as  bridge.  It  was  bowered  in  creepers 
and  held  by  ivy,  and  the  old  thatched  roof  and 
quaint  windows  were  things  to  delight  an  artist's 
heart. 

A  light  burned  in  the  window,  shedding  a  glow 
of  scarlet  through  the  crimson  glaze  of  the  blind. 
It  wavered  over  a  scrap  of  garden,  and  lay  like  a 
thread  along  the  tiny  foot  bridge  . 

Adam  held  out  his  hand.  "Let  me  take  you 
over,"  he  said;  "it's  only  a  frail  bit  o'  plank,  but 
though  the  stream's  shallow  there's  no  need  to  get 
your  feet  wet.  I  happen  to  know  the  'tippitty'  way 
of  it." 

I  also  got  to  know  the  "tippitty"  way  of  that 


190  A   JILT'S   JOUENAL. 

plank ;  but  a  spring,  and  Adam's  strong  hand  landed 
me  safely.  He  knocked  and  we  entered  the  cottage. 

A  lamp  was  on  the  table,  and  a  fire  burned  in  an 
old,  rusty  grate,  with  its  two  wide  hobs.  Sitting  in 
a  deep,  quaint  chair,  with  wooden  back  and  sides, 
was  the  old  woman  of  whose  fame  I  had  heard. 
She  lifted  her  head  as  we  entered.  On  the  table  be- 
fore her  lay  a  pack  of  cards  spread  out  and  covering 
a  considerable  space.  Oh,  that  ancient,  ancient 
face !  Oh,  those  strange  eyes  set  back  in  shrunken 
hollows !  Yet  it  was  a  face  alive  and  keen,  and  full 
of  gnarled  meaning,  like  the  twisted  roots  of  the 
old  tree  that  sheltered  her  cottage  door. 

She  answered  Adam's  greeting  cheerfully. 

"Ye  bain't  come  for  the  rent?  'Tain't  ready; 
nor  likely  to  be." 

"No,"  he  said.  "But,  if  you  remember,  we  were 
to  do  a  bit  o'  repairs  come  spring,  and  father  can 
spare  a  man  to-morrow,  so  I  came  to  tell  you." 

"My  hearty  thanks  for  your  trouble.  And  is  it 
courting  time  come  spring,  wi'  you?  A  likely 
enough  lass,  but  not  for  you,  Adam,  lad.  A  meal 
for  your  betters ;  a  dainty  piece,  too !  Will  you  hear 
your  fortune,  miss?  I'm  main  good  at  the  cards. 
Many's  the  luck  I've  told,  and  the  sorrow  too. 
You're  happy  now  in  not  bein'  happy.  But  there's 
changes  comin',  dark  as  storm  on  summer's  day. 
Shuffle  the  pack,  miss,  and  cut." 

I  hesitated,  then  glanced  at  Adam. 

Her  bleared  eyes  shot  an  angry  spark.  'Tain't 
o'  him  you  need  take  count,  only  your  heart's  nat'ral 
instincts.  You're  not  set  on  matrimony — "  (as  she 
turned  up  the  card  I  had  cut)  "try  another." 

I  obeyed,  now  grown  curious  as  to  what  I  was  to 
hear. 


A   JILT'S   JOURNAL.  191 

"Bold  eno'  you  be  to  fight  your  own  battles — 'tis 
a  strange  wilfulness.  There's  journeys  and  changes 
— many  a  one,  and  a  proud  heart  grown  sore,  and 
the  keeping  o'  pride  and  the  keeping  out  o'  other 
women-folk.  And  men — scores  o'  them  followin' 
— look  at  the  cards — but  no  thought  o'  carin'  for 
one.  There's  a  woman,  golden-crowned  like  your- 
self— she  brings  you  a  power  o'  trouble ;  and  there's 
one  who  bears  you  no  good  will.  Beware  o'  her. 
You'll  know  her  by  an  eye  o'  blue — blue  as  that  bit 
o'  chancy,  which  has  known  nigh  two-score  years  o' 
my  shelf." 

She  pointed  to  the  quaint  old  figure  of  a  man- 
darin set  above  the  smoke-blackened  mantel.  "Be- 
ware o'  that  woman,"  she  went  on,  placing  card 
after  card,  and  reading  them  like  a  printed  page. 
"No  good  will  she  ever  do  you,  or  the  man  who 
owns  her,  or  the  children  she's  borne  him." 

"Come,  come,  widow,  that's  enough  o'that  stuff," 
said  Adam.  "You'll  frighten  the  young  lady,  and 
after  all  'tis  better  she  should  find  things  out  for 
herself  than  be  told  to  watch  for  troubles.  They'll 
come,  if  they  are  to  come." 

"You've  but  a  barren  sort  o'  knowledge,  lad," 
said  the  old  woman,  peering  again  into  the  out- 
spread pack,  as  they  lay  before  her.  "I'll  speak  o' 
your  own  fate  presently,  but  let  the  young  lady  hear 
and  take  warning." 

He  laid  a  sudden,  imperative  hand  on  the  cards 
and  drew  them  all  together.  "No,  no.  I  tell  you  I 
won't  have  it." 

She  looked  at  me,  and  her  eyes  twinkled.  "You 
be  bold  eno'  to  face  troubles,"  she  said.  "When  the 
hour  comes  that  you  want  to  know  aught  o'  man 
that  hurts,  or  woman  that  hates,  come  you  here,  and 


193  A   JILT'S   JOUENAL. 

old  Marthy  Vye  will  tell  you  way  and  ward  against 
misfortune." 

Our  walk  home  was  silent  and  uncomfortable. 
He  bade  me  give  no  thought  to  what  the  old  woman 
had  said,  but  yet  I  felt  he  was  remembering  it. 

I,  for  my  own  part,  was  nursing  a  grudge  against 
him  for  this  sudden  spoiling  of  our  friendship.  I 
liked  him  so  much  that  I  had  no  wish  to  like  him 
more.  I  had  grown  so  used  to  him  in  the  position 
he  had  held,  that  the  attempt  to  alter  that  position 
disconcerted  and  displeased  me.  I  could  not  help 
feeling  embarrassed.  I  avoided  his  eyes,  and  tried 
to  keep  our  restrained  talk  on  impersonal  subjects. 
I  felt  half  angry  that  we  had  met  on  this  special 
night.  If  I  had  only  gone  up  to  the  ruins  instead 
of  loitering  on  the  bridge  we  would  not  have  done 
so,  and  there  would  not  have  been  this  dull,  strange 
feeling  in  my  heart  as  I  write ;  there  would  not  have 
been  that  sense  that  I  had  not  dealt  fairly  with 
Adam — that  he  had  had  a  right  to  blame  me. 

For  when  we  parted,  and  I  had  said,  "Please  for- 
give me  if  I  have  caused  you  any  pain,"  he  had 
laughed  somewhat  bitterly. 

"  "Tis  a  pain  you'll  cause  many  a  man,"  he  said. 
"Maybe  you  don't  mean  to,  or  can't  help  it,  but  it's 
hard  on  them  that  love,  to  look  back  on  a  long  road 
o'  flowery  beauty,  and  find  they've  but  trodden 

stones." 

****** 

So  I  have  found  a  lover  and  I  don't  want  him.  I 
have  found  "love,"  and  given  it  the  cold  shoulder! 

What  makes  me  remember  suddenly  that  book  of 
confessions,  and  find  myself  confronting  another 
life,  love-haunted  and  love-besought,  and  also  in- 


A   JILT'S   JOUKNAL.  193 

capable  of  giving  anything  worth  the  name  in 
return  ? 

My  reasoning  faculties  array  themselves  against 
a  too  vivid  impression  of  some  inherited  instinct, 
but  in  the  background  I  feel  that  the  instinct  is 
strong  enough  to  defy  even  my  own  rebellion  at  its 
existence. 

I  seem  a  narrow-minded  creature;  cold  of  heart, 
critical  and  faulty.  A  hateful,  unlovable,  miserable, 
regretful  Paula — and  the  first  blot  on  my  journal  is 
the  blot  of  tears. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

THREE  days  have  passed  in  a  bustle  of  prepara- 
tion and  letter-writing.  In  none  of  those  days  have 
I  seen  Adam  Herivale. 

This  afternoon  I  walked  over  to  the  farm  to  bid 
his  mother  good-by.  She  was  sitting  in  her  parlor, 
her  chair  drawn  up  to  the  open  window,  so  that  the 
spring  scents  and  warmth  and  beauty  should  reach 
her  as  she  worked. 

"Have  you  heard,"  I  asked,  "that  I  go  to  London 
to-morrow  ?" 

"My  son  made  mention  of  it,"  she  said,  looking 
up  from  the  sock  she  was  knitting  for  that  son.  "I 
hope  you  will  have  a  pleasant  time,  my  dear,  and  not 
quite  forget  us  in  spite  of  the  pleasures." 

Her  kind  eyes  looked  at  me  as  if  asking  had  I 
learnt  Adam's  secret. 

She  had  a  face  whose  noble  beauty  made  every 
emotion  beautiful  also.  Some  faces  distort  expres- 
sion, or  caricature  it ;  others  turn  it  into  an  exquisite 
meaning. 

"I  shall  not  forget — you,"  I  said  with  emphasis. 

"You  will  be  with  grand  folk,  and  very  gay  and 
going  to  parties  and  balls  every  night  —  eh,  my 
dear?" 

"Yes." 

"  'Tis  ofttimes  with  worldly  pleasures  the  devil 
sets  his  traps.  I  hope,  my  dear,  you  will  not  be  alto- 
gether ensnared.  You're  fair  o'  face,  and  sweet- 
tongued,  and  the  manner  o'  you  is  bewitching.  It 

194 


A   JILT'S   JOUKNAL.  196 

would  beguile  any  man  into  thinking  he  was  much 
to  you." 

"Oh,  Mrs.  Herivale!"  I  gasped. 

"It's  your  way,  child,  and  you  can't  be  helping  it. 
I'll  not  deny  that  it's  a  very  pleasant  one,  though 
harmful.  But  maybe  that's  no  fault  of  yours." 

I  felt  my  face  grow  suddenly  warm.  Could 
Adam  possibly  have  told  her  ? 

"You'll  be  having  sweethearts  and  thinking  o' 
marriage,  no  doubt,"  she  went  on  placidly.  "I'm 
thinking  'tis  now  you'll  feel  the  miss  o'  your  mother, 
my  dear.  The  best  friend  you  can  have  is  never 
what  your  own  mother  can  be.  She  goes  back  and 
asks  her  heart  the  same  questions  you  are  asking 
yours,  and  by  its  joy,  or  pain,  or  the  disappointment 
of  her  own  life,  she  finds  material  eno'  to  guide  her 
tongue  to  wisdom." 

"I  have  no  mother,"  I  said  earnestly.  "Although 
she  has  left  me  a  legacy  of  wisdom.  But  I  have  to 
find  out  its  truth — much  of  it  is  so  bewildering  and 
so  cruel." 

Her  eyes  looked  up  questioningly. 

"It's  all  in  a  book,"  I  said  hurriedly. 

"There  are  things  written  in  books  to  mislead  as 
well  as  to  guide,  my  dear.  I  would  not  be  putting 
too  much  faith  in  man's  wisdom." 

"What  about  woman's?" 

"Maybe  she  has  a  clever  brain  and  keen  senses,  is 
quick  and  ready  to  argue,  or  to  feel.  But  ever  and 
always  'tis  her  heart  makes  her  danger.  Many  and 
many  a  one  has  crossed  the  bridge  of  faith,  all  hope 
and  gladness,  only  to  find  on  the  other  side  a  black 
and  dreary  waste.  No  Promised  Land  o'  Glory." 

"But  if  she  doesn't  cross  the  bridge  she  can't  tell 
what  lies  beyond,"  I  argued. 


19G  A   JILT'S   JOURNAL. 

"True,  my  dear.  And  I  often  think  'tisn't  meant 
she  should.  For  love  is  a  good  thing,  and  a  woman 
needs  it ;  even  if  it  brings  sorrow  and  tears,  'tis  bet- 
ter to  have  known  the  cause  o'  the  sorrow,  the  smart 
o'  the  tears,  than  gone  through  life  with  its  one 
great  need  unsatisfied." 

"You,"  I  asked,  "have  never  wanted  to  change 
your  fate?" 

"Never,"  she  said  emphatically. 

"Never  wanted  to  get  away  from  these  surround- 
ings? The  even,  constant  routine  of  weeks,  and 
months,  and  years?" 

"Never.  God  placed  me  here  for  a  purpose  and  a 
duty.  I  have  tried  to  do  His  will." 

I  looked  at  the  sweet,  placid  face,  the  busy  fingers. 
I  thought  of  the  splendid  physique  of  her  children, 
the  devotion  of  her  husband,  the  charmed  circle  of 
home-love  of  which  she  was  the  centre,  and  I  told 
myself  she  had  made  of  life  a  nobler  thing  than  I 
should  ever  do. 

Morbidity  of  thought  is  self-destruction.  It 
withdraws  the  healthy  root  to  analyze  its  component 
parts,  and  then  replants  a  cutting! 

I  shook  myself  free  of  a  tendency  to  disagree  witK 
Divine  orderings  of  commonplace  human  events, 
and  told  her  I  was  sure  she  had  chosen  the  best  part. 

All  the  same,  though  I  might  have  repeated  her 
life,  lived  on  here  beloved  and  honored  and  safely 
sheltered  from  the  world's  temptings,  I  knew  I 
should  never  have  been  content.  I  wanted  so  much 
more. 

She,  like  Adam,  had  been  satisfied  to  let  Natures 
teach  her,  and  Nature  never  permits  us  to  feel  and 
analyze  at  the  same  moment  what  it  is  we  feel.  She 
draws  us  along  with  the  flow  of  her  own  current — 


A   JILT'S   JOURNAL.  197 

that  living,  rushing,  throbbing  current  that  is  exist- 
ence and  joy  in  one. 

Mrs.  Herivale  talked  on  and  I  listened,  as  I  al- 
ways did;  and  left  her,  soothed  by  her  sweet,  wise 
words.  She  never  spoke  of  evil  things;  of  human 
passions  let  loose  without  restraint;  of  riddles  of 
thought  and  feeling,  forever  seeking  answer,  and 
getting  none;  of  torments  of  self-investigation;  of 
all  those  torturing,  bewildering  things  that  had 
come  to  me  of  late  without  desire  of  my  own. 
Fruit  of  what  I  had  read,  and  heard,  and  imagined 
— of  three  months'  mental  growth. 

What  height  should  I  have  reached  ere  the  next 
three  months  had  passed?  Ere  that  "quiet  autumn 
time"  of  which  she  spoke  should  find  me  here  again? 

I  took  the  short  cut  home  across  the  fields,  asking 
myself  these  questions. 

The  sun  was  near  setting,  and  its  red  glint  was 
over  the  brown  hills  and  quiet  meadows.  I  looked 
about,  wondering  if  I  should  meet  Adam.  If  I  did 
not,  I  should  see  him  no  more  till  I  returned.  That 
long  talk  with  his  mother  had  left  me  in  an  almost 
penitent  mood — penitent  for  havoc  wrought  in  this 
quiet,  well-ordered  life.  I  should  like  to  have 
looked  once  more  into  that  frank  and  kindly  face,  to 
have  felt  that  warm,  strong  handclasp,  to  have 
heard  him  say  "Godspeed." 

Even  as  the  thought  came  I  looked  up  and  saw 
him  crossing  the  next  field.  He  was  near  enough 
to  see  me.  I  felt  sure  he  did  see  me,  but  he  made  no 
sign  of  recognition.  Only  it  seemed  to  me  that  he 
hurried  his  steps,  and  leaping  the  low  stone  wall, 
passed  on  and  up  the  road  that  led  to  Quinton  Lacy. 

I  stopped  dead.  I  could  scarcely  believe  my  eyes. 
Then  his  figure  passed  out  of  sight,  lost  in  a  mazy 


198  A   JILT'S   JOURNAL. 

confusion  of  light  and  shadow  as  the  twilight  de- 
scended from  the  circling  hills  above. 

My  pride  rose  up  in  arms.  To  be  ignored;  "cut" 
in  this  curt,  unceremonious  fashion,  and  by  a  mere 
farmer's  son!  A  man  who  had  been  the  willing 
slave  of  my  every  caprice  for  months  past. 

It  seemed  incredible.  Was  my  offence  so  great, 
or  his  pride  so  hurt? 

I  had  penetrated  a  little  further  into  the  realms  of 
reality  than  I  had  bargained  for.  But  to  be  taught 
that  my  power  was  short-lived — that  my  proffered 
friendship  could  meet  such  discourtesy  —  these 
things  stung  and  rankled.  I  did  not  like  them. 

I  had  assured  him  he  would  soon  forget,  but  I 
wanted  to  teach  him  how  to  do  it,  not  receive  a 
lesson  from  him  instead. 

Swiftly  and  with  burning  cheeks  I  went  my  way. 
I  had  a  frightful  sense  of  bungling  absurdity.  I 
tingled  from  head  to  foot  with  shame. 

"How  the  girls  would  laugh,"  I  said  to  myself. 
"Oh,  how  they  would  laugh !".... 

But  I  don't  feel  like  laughing.  And  yet  I  write 
it  all  down  here !  Not  for  the  girls,  though — they 

must  never  know. 

****** 

Merrieless  brushed  out  my  hair  to-night.  I  saw 
the  reflection  of  red,  reproachful  eyes. 

"How  it's  to  be  borne  without  you,  miss — the 
textses  and  the  preaching,  and  your  sins  o'  back- 
slidin'  forever  thrown  at  your  head ! — I  don't  know. 
Aunt  gets  that  irritating  that  'tis  more  than  mortal 
patience  can  stand.  'Tis  well  eno'  for  her  to  preach 
o'  vanities  with  a  clay-cold  man  laid  to  rest  in 
churchyard  blessedness ;  but  she's  known  the  state  o' 
life,  and  worn  the  badge  o'  lawful  matrimony,  and 


A   JILT'S   JOURNAL.  199 

hasn't  no  manner  o'  right  to  find  fault  with  others 
for  seekin'  similar  timely  pleasures." 

I  laughed.  "Suppose  it  wasn't  a  pleasure  or 
'timely'  ?  Perhaps  she's  only  warning  you  to  be 
cautious,  Merry.  Men  are  changeable  creatures, 
you  know.  Fire  before  marriage,  and  snow 
after." 

"Well,  snow  be  easy  melted,  miss,  and  my  heart's 
a  warm  one." 

"Then  if  the  snow  melts  what  would  you  do?" 

She  looked  puzzled  at  such  pursuing  of  metaphor. 

"I  ha'n't  thought  so  much  o'  the  matter  out,  miss. 
Nor  do  I  be  believin'  such  ill  o'  a  man  as  has  loved 
true  and  faithful  nigh  upon  two  twelvemonths." 

"Do  you  want  to  get  married,  Merry?"  I  asked. 

"Oh !  that  is  putting  the  matter  in  a  way  to  make 
one  bashful,  miss.  No  right-feelin'  woman  ever 
says  she  wants  the  ordinance  o'  matrimony  for  her 
own  experience,  but  she's  just  waitin'  to  take  it  if 
chance  do  bring  it  her  way." 

"Then  how  long  do  you  want  to— wait?" 

"Gregory  he  be  talkin'  o'  this  coming  Christmas, 
miss;  wages  and  a  cottage  bein'  conformable,  and 
the  work  at  the  farm  certain." 

"Next  Christmas!  Oh,  Merry,  what  shall  /  do 
without  you?" 

"That's  payin'  me  an  honor  as  is  not  my  due, 
miss,  for  there  be  girls  in  plenty  for  service ;  and  it's 
not  out  of  the  probable  that  you  might  be  marryin' 
too." 

"Oh,  no,  Merry !"  I  said  hastily,  "not  in  the  least 
likely.  I  don't  want  to  be  tied  down  to  a  man  and 
his  will.  That's  what  happens  when  you  get  mar- 
ried, unless,  of  course,  you  quarrel  and  go  each  your 
separate  way." 


200  A   JILTS   JOURNAL. 

"That  not  bein'  true  and  hon'rable  matrimony, 
miss,  as  considered  by  the  Church  Service." 

"I  suppose  not;  but  I'm  afraid  it's  not  uncom- 
mon." 

"What's  taught  you  this  side  o'  the  matter,  miss, 
if  I  may  make  so  bold  ?" 

"Books — modern  novels — and  modern  women," 
I  said. 

"Well,  my  showings  for  it  are  only  my  feelin's, 
miss,  and  they  do  counsel  love  and  obedience,  and 
patient  bearing  with  the  man  if  he's  not  too  contu- 
mashus.  Then  a  handled  broomstick  is  not  a  bad 
sort  o'  corrective,  specially  if  he's  in  his  cups,  as 
most  o'  them  is  when  talkin'  to  argufyin',  and  re- 
tainin'  wages  as  ought  to  be  for  the  wife's  right  o' 
spendin'." 

"Dear  me,"  I  said,  "I  can  hardly  fancy  you  with 
a  broomstick,  Merry,  chastising  Gregory.  The  old 
one,  now,  might  deserve  it,  but  not  your  swain." 

"The  old  one  is  sobered  down  a  bit  o'  late,"  she 
said.  "Rheumatics  caught  a  hold  o'  him,  and  he's 
all  o'  a  groan  instead  o'  a  cackle.  That  cheerful 
soul  o'  his  came  down  wonderful  meek  when  he  had 
to  have  his  limbs  liniminted,  and  his  beer  stopped. 
And  talkin'  o'  the  ancient  sinner — 'twas  Gregory  all 
but  gave  him  a  clout  for  the  darin'  words  o'  you, 
sayin'  you'd  been  and  jilted  the  young  master,  and 
made  him  a  sort  o'  pictur'  o'  misery  that  scarce 
knows  his  business  when  he  goes  to  do  it." 

"How  dared  he  say  such  a  thing!"  I  asked  furi- 
ously, as  I  gave  my  head  an  angry  jerk  that  sent 
the  brush  flying.  "Do  you  mean  to  say  that  it's 
farmhouse  gossip  that  I — and  Adam  Herivale " 

"Were  as  good  as  courtin'.  Yes,  miss.  They're 
poor,  ignorant  folk  and  don't  take  much  account  o' 


A  JILT'S   JOURNAL.  201 

difference  in  stations,  and  young  Adam  Herivale 
was  most  worshipful,  miss.  Anyone  could  see  that 
'twas  love  wi'  him  whatever  it  might  be  wi'  you." 

"And  they  dare  to  say  I  jilted  him?" 

"  'Twas  the  word,  miss ;  but  him  that  spoke  it  is 
but  an  ignorant,  unlettered  man  as  looks  on  life  but 
one  way,  and  that's  his  own." 

I  had  scarcely  known  what  real  anger  was  as  yet. 
There  had  been  nothing  to  call  it  forth  but  the  little 
tiffs  and  quarrels  of  school-life. 

Now,  however,  I  felt  aroused  to  wrath,  hot  and 
indignant. 

Paula's  anxiety  to  stand  well  in  everyone's  esti- 
mation, Paula's  desire  to  be  praised  and  appreciated, 
met  with  a  rude  shock. 

A  jilt! 

That  odious  word  to  be  applied  to  me!  To 
think  that  I  must  go  forth  from  my  first  conquest 
branded  with  so  hateful  a  designation. 

Must  a  girl  accept  a  man's  love  if  she  accept  his 
attentions  ?  Is  one  only  the  precursor  of  the  other  ? 
At  what  critical  moment  should  she  draw  back? 
How  learn  the  signs  when  friendship  drifts  to  love  ? 
How  tell  a  man  you  do  not  need  him,  and  spoil  his 
happiness,  before  actually  allowing  to  yourself  that 
it  is  happiness  you  are  spoiling? 

I  dismissed  Merrieless,  having  no  further  inclina- 
tion for  her  quaint  babble — dismissed  her,  and  gave 
myself  up  to  my  own  thoughts. 

To-night  I  closed  a  chapter  of  my  journal  and  a 
chapter  of  my  life.  It  saddened  me,  amidst  all  the 
glamor  of  expectation,  to  think  that  I  closed  them 
with  remorse. 


PART  II. 

The  Fruit  of  Knowledge* 

CHAPTER  I. 

Is  Paula  a  fool? 

It  is  Paula  herself  who  asks  that  question  of  her- 
self, three  months  later. 

What  have  these  three  months  held  ? 

More  than  my  journal  could  chronicle  had  I 
chosen  to  write  down  day  by  day,  hour  for  hour,  the 
lessons  that  life  was  teaching.  More  than  I  care  to 
say  even  as  I  resume  my  old  habit  of  scribbling. 

More  than  I  can  say  even  to  Lesley,  who  has  come 
back  with  me  for  a  week's  visit  before  her  marriage. 

Yes — Lesley  is  to  be  married,  and  I — according 
to  a  long-ago  promise — am  to  be  one  of  her  brides- 
maids. 

She  is  making  a  "great  match,"  so  Lady  Archie 
told  me,  but  I  am  sure  that  she  is  being  coerced  into 
it  by  some  of  those  invisible  forces  applied  to  girls, 
whose  whole  duty,  according  to  Society,  is  to  make 
a  brilliant  marriage. 

Lesley's  will  be  a  brilliant  marriage.  Lord  Lyn- 
mouth  is  one  of  the  "catches"  of  many  seasons,  and 
has  hitherto  escaped  all  the  traps  of  matchmaking 

202 


A   JILT'S   JOURNAL.  203 

mothers  and  guileless  debutantes.  Yet  he  fell  a 
victim  to  Lesley,  and  though  I  appreciate  his  taste, 
I  abhor  him. 

That  is  the  worst  of  friendship !  It  has  to  be  cut 
asunder  by  some  knife  of  disapproval.  It  is  impos- 
sible to  agree  on  every  point.  Certainly  impossible 
to  agree  on  the  choice  of  the  man  or  woman  who 
first  divides  it. 

I  know  my  Lesley,  my  chum,  my  school  idol  will 
never  be  to  me  what  she  has  been,  once  a  husband 
claims  her ;  once  she  takes  up  that  position  to  which 
her  marriage  will  entitle  her. 

We  had  seen  a  great  deal  and  yet  very  little  of  one 
another  in  that  season  I  spent  in  London.  A  time 
at  which  I  am  now  looking  back  critically,  conscious 
that  to  write  the  truth  of  it  will  make  me  seem  a 
somewhat  vain  and  essentially  fickle  young  person. 

I  wrote  no  journal  there.  My  days  were  too 
crowded,  my  leisure  too  rare.  There  is  no  doubt 
that  Lady  St.  Quinton  gave  me  what  Americans  call 
a  "lovely  time." 

I  rode  and  drove  with  hundreds  of  others  who 
rode  trained  hacks,  and  adorned  cee-spring  car- 
riages. I  danced,  and  dined,  and  "at  homed;" 
meeting  persistently  the  same  set  of  people,  and 
hearing  perpetually  the  same  sort  of  talk.  I  was 
satiated  with  music,  and  grew  critical  as  to  fashion- 
able pianists  and  vocalists.  I  was  taken  to  see  pic- 
tures which  gave  me  but  a  poor  idea  of  modern  art, 
and  had  learnt  to  give  opinions  on  men,  manners 
and  morals  which  invariably  made  the  recipients 
laugh,  or  declare  I  was  "rippin'  good  fun,"  or  as  ex- 
hilarating as  a  glass  of  champagne. 

For,  with  all  her  rusticity,  Paula  was  essentially 
critical  and  exacting.  Vapid  speeches,  unconvinc- 


204  A   JILT'S   JOURNAL. 

ing  compliments,  never  satisfied  her.  She  wanted 
something  very  different. 

She  had  two  proposals,  formal  and  definite,  and 
about  a  dozen  undeclared  and  indecisive  confessions 
of  what  might  have  meant  love,  had  she  so  chosen. 

She  did  not  choose  it. 

The  same  spirit  that  had  interested  her  in  Adam 
Herivale  interested  her  in  those  London  men,  up  to 
a  certain  point.  Beyond  that  she  would  not  go, 
and  nothing  could  tempt  her.  In  vain  Lady  St. 
Quinton  urged  that  a  brilliant  marriage  would  make 
of  her  a  perfect  success ! 

Paula  preferred  to  be  an  imperfect  one — as  yet. 
****** 

I  went  to  town  labeled  "jilt" — I  have  come  back 
an  acknowledged  coquette.  And  all  because  I  will 
know  the  full  meaning  of  those  simulated  passions, 
those  professed  attachments ;  the  homage  that  is  at 
once  incense  to  one's  vanity  and  shame  to  one's 
better  instincts.  None  of  these  men  could  move  me 
beyond  a  certain  point.  When  I  reached  that  point 
I  began  to  analyze  them.  It  was  not  that  I  had 
raised  a  standard  of  excellence  to  which  I  expected 
they  would  attain,  but  that  I  sought  to  know  their 
own  standard,  and  found  it  so  poor,  or  so  trivial, 
that  I  felt  nothing  but  contempt  for  the  com- 
petitors. 

I  saw  no  harm  in  leading  them  to  self-betrayal, 
because  I  considered  a  woman  had  every  right  to 
know  what  sort  of  a  bargain  she  was  making  when 
she  deliberately  put  herself  and  her  future  into  a 
man's  hands. 

He  might  choose  a  wife  for  her  beauty,  her  fasci- 
nation, her  wealth  even,  but  she  should  choose  no 
man  for  external  advantages  of  physique  or  posi- 


A   JILT'S   JOURNAL.  205 

tion.  So  as  I  dismissed  my  suitors  with  calm  indif- 
ference, I  received  many  a  lecture  from  my 
chaperon. 

"It  would  be  so  advantageous  to  come  back  next 
season  a  young  married  woman,"  she  urged.  "It  is 
the  era  of  the  young  married  woman.  She  has  all 
the  admiration  and  all  the  prestige,  and  all  the  op- 
portunities denied  to  the  mere  girl." 

"Those  seem  odd  incentives  to  marriage,"  I 
answered. 

"You  have  surely  some  ambition.  You  don't 
look  the  sort  of  girl  to  go  through  an  uninteresting 
life." 

"I  hope  to  get  a  deal  of  interest  out  of  it — before 
I  marry." 

"But  you  are  throwing  away  such  good  oppor- 
tunities. You  have  offended  so  many  men.  A  man 
hates  to  look  a  fool,  and  you  lead  them  on  till  they 
are  sure  you  mean  acceptance,  and  then  you  refuse 
them." 

"Because  I  don't  care  to  marry  one  of  them." 

"Why  not?     There's  Tommy  Yelverton." 

"Tommy  Dodd,  as  they  call  him — a  young  man 
with  but  one  idea,  and  that's  himself." 

"He  has  acquired  another  of  late,  and  that's — 
yourself." 

"Well,  the  idea  is  all  he  will  acquire,  for  I  would 
never  marry  him" 

"Mr.  St.  Aubyn,  then.  He's  a  rising  man,  and 
you  like  politicians." 

"He's  such  an  echo  of  other  people's  opinions, 
and  so  selfish." 

"How  do  you  contrive  to  find  out  the  worst 
points  of  every  man  you  meet?" 

I  laughed.     "I  don't  know.     Perhaps  they  don't 


206  A   JILT'S   JOURNAL. 

show  me  their  best.  I  like  to  draw  them  out,  and 
they  —  apparently  —  like  to  confess.  I've  heard 
Tommy  Yelverton's  own  opinions  of  Tommy  Yel- 
verton,  and  very  funny  they  are.  That  millionaire 
from  South  Africa,  Reuben  Goldstein,  first  told  me 
how  he  made  his  money,  and  then  enlightened  me  as 
to  the  feat  known  as  going  on  the  'razzle-dazzle/ 
I  believe  that  meant  spending  the  aforesaid  money 
idiotically,  by  the  help  of — other  people." 

"Paula!" 

"Well,  dear,  you  asked  me,  and  I  am  explaining. 
Carlton  Clyde,  again,  who  you  said  was  epris,  only 
used  to  talk  about  his  success  at  'bac/  as  he  called 
it,  and  the  scandals  retailed  at  the  Bachelors'.  That 
rich  young  American,  who  was  going  to  marry  into 
our  'aristocracy,'  gave  me  an  insight  into  the  free 
unbiased  condition  of  the  American  press.  Sir 
Richard  Dense,  whom  everyone  calls  'Dickey  D/ 
was  very  communicative  with  regard  to  ladies  of  the 
ballet  and  some  popular  actresses.  What  he  used 
to  tell  me  after  half  a  dozen  glasses  of  champagne  at 
supper — well,  perhaps  you'd  rather  not  hear !" 

"I'd  rather  you  had  never  heard,"  she  said  in 
alarm.  "I  thought  you  such  a  modest,  reserved 
girl,  Paula.  How  comes  it  that  you've  managed  to 
draw  so  much  out  of  your  admirers?" 

"That's  my  artfulness,  I  suppose.  They  all 
thought  they  were  impressing  me,  while  all  the  time 
they  were  disillusioning.  I  know  the  heart  of  man 
and  his  foibles  and  vanities  a  great  deal  better  than 
he  thinks  I  know  it.  Perhaps  it  is  the — contrast — " 
I  stopped,  then  hurried  on.  "They  think  I'm  young 
and  fresh  and  they  give  me  'tips,'  so  that  I  need 
not  betray  my  ignorance  of  the  social  ropes." 

"All  this,  I  suppose,  comes  of  being  the  niece  of  a 


A   JILT'S   JOURNAL.  207 

clever  man,"  murmured  Lady  St.  Quinton,  ruefully. 
"They  say  his  brother,  your  father,  was  even  clev- 
erer than  the  professor,  and  your  mother  would  have 
been  a  second  George  Eliot  had  she  lived." 

"I  am  not  sure  I  should  have  cared  for  her  to  be 
— that,"  I  said.  "You  see  I've  read  the  Life  and 
Letters." 

Lady  St.  Quinton  turned  the  conversation,  and 
again  paraded  before  me  my  admirers,  my  chances, 
and  my  astonishing  indifference  to  both. 

It  was  indifference — save  so  far  as  the  extraction 
of  facts  on  which  to  build  my  opinions,  and  form 
my  theories. 

I  let  thought  wing  me  back  to  that  brilliant  epi- 
sode— my  first  season.  Rapid  as  a  bird's  flight 
seem  those  days  of  leisure  and  pleasure  now  I  look 
back  on  them !  I  remember  their  incidents  because 
Nature  has  gifted  me  with  a  brain  that  photographs 
and  chronicles.  I  could  take  up  any  one  of  those 
incidents  and  what  led  to  it,  and  what  in  turn  led 
to  the  conclusions  I  have  formed,  were  I  so  dis- 
posed; but  the  few  facts  I  have  jotted  down  tell 
enough. 

When  I  began  by  asking  myself  if  I  were  a  fool,  I 
asked  it  from  the  point  of  view  of  Lady  St.  Quin- 
ton; of  that  audacious  firefly,  the  Lorely,  whom  I 
saw  so  often  and  hated  so  cordially ;  of — saddest  of 
all — my  friend,  Lesley  Heath ! 

For  in  different  words  and  different  ways  they 
had  all  insinuated  the  same  thing,  "You  had  the  ball 
at  your  feet  and  you've  kicked  it  away ;  you'll  never 
get  another  chance." 

Lesley  had  picked  up  her  ball.  Its  possession, 
however,  did  not  seem  to  make  her  happy.  Be- 
tween us,  of  late,  had  crept  a  thin  crust  of  reserve. 


208  A   JILT'S   JOURNAL. 

She  had  grown  reticent  of  expressing  her  feelings, 
and  I  did  not  like  to  question  her  too  closely. 

I  felt  angered  often  when  I  thought  of  the  happy, 
careless  school  days,  the  talks  and  confidences,  the 
long  letters  we  had  exchanged  even  in  brief  ab- 
sences. 

The  first  chill  had  come  with  that  visit  to  the 
Riviera.  She  had  stayed  with  her  step-mother  at 
the  villa  of  a  certain  Russian  princess,  had  breathed 
an  atmosphere  of  the  most  lavish  and  enervating 
extravagance,  had  met  a  crowd  of  men  and  women 
steeped  to  their  finger-tips  in  worldly  follies,  and 
with  one  unceasing  craze  for  excitement  in  some 
form. 

It  had  been  a  bad  school  for  a  young  girl,  and 
Lesley's  delicate  beauty,  and  that  sweet,  small  face 
of  hers,  had  created  a  sensation  among  them  all. 

Hers  was  that  strange  combination — apparent 
helplessness  and  physical  strength.  The  clear- 
tinted,  clear-cut  face  made  one  think  of  ivory  or 
porcelain,  and  the  brown  hair  was  so  thick  and 
ruffled  that,  to  me,  it  always  seemed  to  cast  a  shadow 
over  the  whiteness  of  the  brow  from  which  it  waved. 

That  wave  was  ensnaring.  Brush,  or  pin,  or 
band  the  hair  as  you  would,  always  it  fell  back  into 
one  soft  ripple,  and  underneath  its  shadow  of  dusky 
brown  the  deep,  full-lidded  eyes  looked  out  with 
something  of  a  child's  appeal,  and  a  woman's  fear  of 
the  unknown. 

It  seemed  to  me  they  always  held  the  fear  now. 

But  she  would  not  speak  of  it,  nor  of  why  it  had 
come,  nor  of  that  time  when  her  letters  ceased 
abruptly,  and  my  promised  description  of  the  Riv- 
iera and  the  life  of  the  gay  little  cities  it  owned  was 
never  fulfilled. 


A   JILT'S   JOURNAL.  209 

When  she  told  me  she  was  going1  to  marry  Lord 
Lynmouth  I  could  not  believe  it.  He  was  a  weak- 
looking,  dissipated  man  of  forty,  enormously  weal- 
thy, and  with  a  reputation  as  enormously  bad.  Yet 
in  cold,  unmoved  tones  she  announced  she  had  ac- 
cepted him,  and  was  to  be  married  at  the  beginning 
of  October. 

She  was  giving  me  one  week  of  herself.  One 
week  of  quiet  days  among  my  peaceful  surround- 
ings. It  had  been  her  own  suggestion  to  come. 
And  I  scarcely  believed  she  meant  it. 

But  she  is  here,  and  she  is  sleeping  now  in  the 
adjoining  room  while  I  write. 

Lady  St.  Quinton  wanted  us  to  stay  at  the  Court, 
but  Lesley  answered,  "No.  I  want  Paula  to  my- 
self, and  I  am  sure  Paula  wants  me." 

And  I  did  want  her.  But  I  wanted  my  own 
Lesley,  the  girl  I  had  known,  the  friend  I  had  loved. 

Should  I  ever  find  her  again? 


CHAPTER  II. 

TO-DAY  I  took  Lesley  to  the  castle,  and  showed 
her  all  my  favorite  spots. 

We  sat  on  the  western  slope,  and  I  pointed  to  the 
cottage  where  Widow  Vye  lived,  and  described  her 
powers  of  fortune-telling.  Lesley  was  interested, 
and  I  repeated  the  prophecies  which  I  remembered 
so  well. 

"That  description  of  blue  eyes  rather  applies  to 
Lady  Brancepeth,"  she  said.  "And,  for  some  rea- 
son or  other,  Paula,  she  bears  you  no  good  will. 
How  did  you  manage  to  offend  her  ?" 

I  mentioned  Captain  Jim  and  the  little  incident 
of  the  screen.  We  discussed  the  incident  with  some 
diffidence,  but  it  would  be  absurd  to  say  that  it  held 
no  significance  for  us  now.  A  London  season  illu- 
minates the  meaning  of  many  strange  friendships. 

"Have  you  ever  heard  from  him  since  he  went 
away?"  asked  Lesley. 

"No,  not  a  word.  I  liked  him — rather.  I  hoped 
he  would  write.  He  was  better  than  most  of  the 
men  I  have  met.  I  mean  he  didn't  only  talk  of  sport, 
or  scandal,  or  pay  one  foolish  compliments." 

"He  drove  you  home  against  the  Lorely's  orders 
and  sent  you  those  things  for  your  drawing-room! 
My  dear,  of  course  she'd  hate  you!  He  has  been 
her  special  property  so  long  that  she'd  never  forgive 
the  woman  who  made  him  forswear  his  allegiance." 

"That  sort  of  thing,"  I  observed,  "is  very  com- 
210 


A  JILT'S   JOUBNAL.  211 

mon  in  Society,  isn't  it  ?  At  first  I  thought  it  was 
only  in  Ouida's  novels  that  one  found  the  Lady  Joan 
and  Duchess  de  Sonnaz  type  of  woman.  But  they 
do  exist." 

"Indeed  they  do.  Books  only  describe  what  life 
produces.  The  life  of  the  smart  world  is  about  as 
immoral  as — well,  as  the  two  characters  you  have 
mentioned.  Think  of  the  extravagances,  the  waste 
of  money,  the  thousand  follies  they  commit.  When 
I  stayed  at  Princess  Tchernigov's  villa  there  were 
two  women  there  who  frankly  acknowledged  their 
dress  allowance  was  supplemented  by  obliging 
friends — of  the  male  persuasion.  As  for  flowers 
and  gloves  and  jewels — they  were  offered  and  ac- 
cepted as  a  matter  of  course." 

"Oh,  Lesley,"  I  said  involuntarily,  "and  you  are 
marrying  into  this  set !" 

She  made  no  answer.  Her  eyes  wandered  off  to 
the  golden  harvest  fields  that  stretched  to  right  and 
left. 

"What  has  become  of  Adam  Herivale?"  she 
asked  suddenly. 

"I  don't  know.  I  suppose  he  is  still  at  the  farm. 
He  will  be  busy  now.  It  is  harvest  time." 

"I  should  like  to  meet  him." 

"Why?     He  is  not  at  all  your  style  of  man." 

"But  he  is  a  man.  At  least  your  description 
showed  him  as  one.  It  must  be  refreshing  to  meet 
one  like  him — simple,  natural,  true — without  the 
vices  of  modern  life,  or  the  nauseating  affection  that 
is  labeled  culture.  Bring  him  over  while  I  am  here, 
Paula." 

I  felt  my  cheeks  grow  hot.  "I  don't  know  if  he 
will  come,"  I  said. 

"Why — have  you  quarreled?" 


A   JILT'S   JOURNAL. 
"Not  exactly.       But  before  I  left  here — well, 

"Oh,  Paula,  fie!     Another  broken  heart?" 

"I  hardly  think  his  heart  is  broken.  And  really, 
Lesley,  it  was  not  my  fault.  I  liked  him  very  much 
in  a  friendly,  appreciative  fashion;  but,  oh — why 
will  men  always  want  you  to  love  instead  of  like 
them?  There's  such  a  difference  between  the  two, 
but  they  seem  to  think  if  you  like  to  talk,  or  walk 
with,  or  are  interested  in  them,  you  must  of  necessity 
fall  into  love  as  well.  They  spoil  everything  by 
such  a  ridiculous  idea !" 

"I  suppose  it  is  an  idea  that  is  the  outcome  of 
generations  of  slavish  conquests.  They  think  of  us 
still  as  possible  captives  of  bow  and  spear;  the 
weapons  only  are  different.  Physical  force  has 
given  place  to  mental,  or  magnetic,  coercion.  They 
would  keep  the  attitude  of  'conqueror'  always  if  they 
could." 

"Lesley,  dearest,"  I  said  suddenly,  "are  you  happy 
in  the  thought  of  this  marriage?  It  seems  to  me — " 

She  stopped  me  by  a  pressure  of  her  hand. 

"Dear  Paula,  I  never  question  the  why  and  where- 
fore of  my  actions  as  you  do.  I  want  certain  things 
of  life  and  I  take  them  while  I  have  the  chance. 
It  will  suit  me  very  well  to  be  queen  of  a  social  set 
that  has  only  seen  in  me  a  girl's  possibilities.  This 
may  sound  very  ignoble  to  you,  but  I  have  had  a 
different  education.  As  for  love" — her  voice  grew 
hard — "it  doesn't  really  last.  It  is  very  well  while 
it  does,  but  there  are  certain  substantial  benefits 
infinitely  preferable.  I  am  built  on  small  lines — 
you  on  great  ones.  I  have  certain  inherited  tenden- 
cies that  lead  me  to  prefer  luxury  to  insignificance. 
I  can't  help  them.  I  only  know  they  are  as  much  a 


A  JILT'S   JOURNAL.  213 

part  of  myself  as  my  hair  or  my  hands.  They  will 
make  up  to  me  for  many  things.  My  husband-to- 
be  may  not  seem  a  very  desirable  individual,  but  to 
me  he  is  a  very  necessary  one." 

"You  are  only  echoing  Lady  Archie.  It's  not 
your  old  true  self  speaking!" 

Our  eyes  met — mine  were  hot  and  indignant. 
Hers — was  it  pain  I  read  in  them?  Pain  and  re- 
bellion suppressed  by  a  strong  hand,  held  down  and 
conquered  by  force  of  will.  I  thought  so,  and  the 
thought  hurt  me  as  nothing  had  hurt  me  yet. 

"My  old  true  self,"  she  echoed,  with  a  pause  be- 
tween each  word.  "I  wonder  where  it  is,  Paula? 
Out  of  sight  somewhere,  or  buried  alive  beneath 
an  avalanche  of  worldly  maxims?  I  confess  I  should 
not  know  where  to  look  for  it,  or  what  to  do  with  it 
if  I  found  it." 

"I  don't  believe  it's  lost,"  I  said  earnestly.  "You 
are  pretending  to  me  as  well  as  to  your  own  heart, 
Lesley.  In  this  quiet,  simple  life  doesn't  the  old  self 
come  back  and  look  at  you  with  reproach  ?  Nature 
never  intended  you  to  be  the  heartless  coquette  of 
fashion  typified  by  such  a  woman  as  Lady  Brance- 
peth." 

Her  face  flushed  suddenly.  "Why  did  you  bring 
up  her  name?" 

"Because  I  think  she  is  responsible  for  the  change 
in  you.  An  incentive  to  the  race  for  a  prize " 

"It  certainly  is  a  prize,  my  dear,"  she  said  mock- 
ingly. "Forty  thousand  a  year,  and  two  country 
seats,  and  a  town  mansion!  I  could  not  in  justice 
to  myself  allow  any  one  else  to  go  off  with  them." 

"But — if  you  are  unhappy?" 

"Paula,"  she  said  bitterly,  "one  is  bound  to  be 
unhappy  soon  or  late.  It's  a  law  of  life  from  which 


214  A  JILT'S   JOURNAL. 

there's  no  escape.  And  as  some  modern  writer 
cleverly  puts  it,  it  is  better  to  be  unhappy  in  com- 
fortable surroundings  than  in  uncomfortable  ones. 
Cold  that  is  warded  off  by  satin  eiderdowns  and 
blazing  fires  is  cold  rendered  luxurious.  Who  would 
prefer  a  tattered  blanket,  or  an  empty  grate?  I 
have  been  brought  up  to  luxury.  I  have  no  fortune 
of  my  own.  I  have  won  the  heart  of  a  man  who 
can  give  me  everything  I  want,  and  I  assure  you, 
Paula,  I  want  a  great  deal,  because " 

She  broke  off,  then  rose  abruptly.  "Let  us  walk 
on,"  she  said,  her  tone  hard  and  strangely  altered. 
"And  for  God's  sake,  Paula,  don't  lure  me  into  sen- 
timental confidences.  They  are  useless.  I  have 
made  up  my  mind." 

I  rose  and  followed  her  silently  down  the  castle 
slopes.  We  walked  past  the  old  inn.  A  crowd  of 
children  were  grouped  round  the  Market  Cross  as  if 
awaiting  some  event. 

Suddenly  in  the  distance  sounded  the  merry  blast 
of  a  horn.  We  glanced  down  the  narrow  street 
leading  to  the  bridge,  and  saw  a  coach  dashing  up 
the  hill.  It  rounded  the  corner  and  drew  up  in  fine 
style  before  the  great  square  porch  of  the  Deer- 
hound  Inn.  The  red-coated  guard  descended  nim- 
bly, and  the  owner  of  the  inn  advanced  with  a  smile 
of  welcome  and  an  eye  to  the  patronage  of  hungry 
luncheon-seekers.  The  coach  was  crowded  with 
people,  and  Lesley  and  I  watched  them  descend  and 
gaze  about  this  Sleepy  Hollow  with  some  interest. 

"Oh,  that's  the  coach  from  Glenbourne,  twenty 
miles  away,"  I  said.  "It  comes  once  a  week  in  the 
season,  but  I've  never  been  here  at  this  time  of  year 
before.  What  a  lot  of  people!  I  suppose  they 
come  to  see  the  castle." 


A   JILT'S   JOURNAL.  215 

They  were  gazing  about  in  that  questioning,  curi- 
ous manner  of  tourists.  Perhaps  wondering,  as  I 
had  done,  that  the  vulgarity  of  modern  life  should 
desecrate  so  quaint  a  bit  of  ancient  history  as 
Scarffe. 

For  bicycles  and  cheap  teas  always  seemed  to  me 
a  desecration  of  the  beautiful  peace  those  circling 
hills  had  so  long  shut  in  from  the  inharmonious  in- 
trusion of  the  world  without.  But  alas !  the  bicycle, 
and  the  excursion  train,  and  the  advertised  "coach- 
ing trip"  were  doing  what  all  modern  civilization 
does — destroying  the  quaint  and  stately  grace  that 
still  clings  about  historical  landmarks ! 

I  had  not  yet  learned  what  this  morning  taught 
me — that  peering  eyes,  and  loud  voices,  and  vulgar 
jests,  and  the  competition  of  cheap  wagonettes  and 
hired  "bikes"  could  turn  Scarffe  and  its  beautiful 
old  ruin  into  a  Hampstead  Heath  on  bank  holidays. 

Lesley  was  watching  the  dispersing  crowd  with  an 
interest  I  could  not  emulate.  Suddenly  an  indi- 
vidual from  among  it  approached  us — a  young, 
good-looking  man  with  a  field-glass  swung  over  his 
shoulder,  and  a  guide-book  in  his  hand. 

He  lifted  his  hat.  "May  I  ask  you,  ladies,"  he 
said,  "if  that's  the  way  to  the  ruins?" 

I  felt  inclined  to.  answer,  "May  I  ask  you,  man,  if 
you've  got  eyes?"  But  his  accent  had  given  him 
away.  I  had  learned  something  of  that  insatiable 
curiosity  for  information  which  has  made  the  New 
World  so  important  and  domineering.  I  recognized 
an  exponent  of  this  curiosity,  and  answered  it. 

"That  path,"  I  said,  "leads  to  a  stone  bridge.  Be- 
fore you  is  the  gateway.  You  will  note  the  massive 
towers  twenty  feet  in  diameter  that  have  been  blown 
to  pieces  by  the  Parliamentary  gunpowder  of  1646. 


216  A   JILT'S   JOURNAL. 

You  will  also  pay  sixpence  for  admission  beyond 
that  gateway.  We  don't  give  anything  away  in 
this  country — even  ruins." 

"I  guess  you're  giving  away  a  fair  lot  of  infor- 
mation," he  said,  smiling,  and  displaying  a  row  of 
beautifully  white  and  even  teeth  under  a  brown 
mustache.  "I  s'pose  you  live  here  and  know  all 
about  it?" 

"I — live  here,"  I  said,  "but  I  know  very  little 
about  it.  I  think  we  English  don't  concern  our- 
selves about  our  surroundings,  once  we  get  used  to 
them." 

"Is  that  so  ?"  he  inquired,  his  face  growing  eager. 
"Well,  now,  it's  often  struck  me  that  we  Americans 
could  give  you  points  on  your  own  history.  As  a 
nation  you  do  seem  ver-ry  indifferent  to  it,  if  I  may 
say  so." 

"I  am  afraid  we  are,"  I  said.  "We  ought  to  be 
grateful  for  the  introduction  of  Atlantic  liners. 
They  have  at  least  helped  us  to  some  knowledge  of 
our  national  possessions.  Wasn't  it  an  American 
traveler  who  first  discovered  Stonehenge?" 

"I  don't  know  about  that,"  he  said,  with  a  keen 
look.  "But  I'm  main  sure  that  we  taught  you  more 
about  your  Tower  of  London  and  your  Shakes- 
peare's village  than  you'd  ever  guessed." 

Lesley  looked  at  him  and  half  smiled.  "Yours  is 
a  young  nation,"  she  said,  "and  it  has  all  youth's 
enthusiasm  and  buoyancy.  This  old  land  has  had 
time  to  get  tired  of  its  history — even  of  itself." 

"I  guess  that's  so,"  he  said.  "Though  we  wouldn't 
object  to  some  of  the  history,  and  a  good  deal  of 
itself." 

He  glanced  at  me  again,  or  rather  at  my  hair, 
and  up  once  more  to  the  castle  ruins. 


A   JILT'S   JOURNAL.  217 

"I  s'pose,"  he  said,  "I'd  best  be  getting  along. 
There's  a  great  deal  to  see  up  there,  I'm  told." 

"Yes,  and  as  you've  thoughtfully  provided  your- 
self with  a  guide-book  you'll  be  at  no  loss  to  find  out 
the  points  of  interest." 

"I — I  was  thinking  of  spending  a  couple  of  days 
here,"  he  went  on.  "Might  I  ask  if  that  inn's  the 
only  sort  of  ho-tel  in  the  place?" 

"The  only  one.  But  it's  very  comfortable,  and 
you  can  have  the  privilege  of  doing  without  gas,  or 
elevators,  or  iced  water,  and  sleeping  in  a  room  in 
which  you  can  barely  stand  upright.  I  think  the 
date  is  somewhere  about  1733,  if  that's  old  enough 
to  be  of  any  value." 

He  glanced  at  the  quaint  stone  porch,  and  then 
up  to  the  old  gray,  moss-covered  roofs  around. 

"It's  about  the  most  me-diaeval  place  I've  yet 
seen,"  he  observed.  "I  guess  I'll  stay." 

"You  had  better  see  about  accommodation,"  I 
suggested.  "A  great  many  artists  come  here,  and 
they  always  make  the  inn  their  headquarters." 

"Thank  you.  I'll  just  go  and  deposit  my  'grip.' 
I  hope  you'll  excuse  me  for  saying  it's  been  a  real 
pleasure  to  meet  such  a  frank-spoken  young  Eng- 
lish lady.  Mostly  they  freeze  up  if  you  so  much  as 
ask  them  a  question.  We  don't  mean  any  harm  by 
our  questions.  It's  just  our  way  to  use  our  tongues. 
Your  folk,  I  reckon,  chain  them  up." 

I  laughed  outright.  He  was  so  breezy  and  care- 
less and  good-humored  that  I  felt  perfectly  assured 
he  would  not  misinterpret  my  own  frankness. 

"I  hope  you'll  enjoy  your  stay,"  I  said.  "Scarffe 
is  a  most  interesting  place,  and  so  are  its  surround- 
ings." 

"Of  that — I'm  sure,"  he  said,  with  an  emphatic 


218  A   JILT'S   JOURNAL. 

glance  again  at  my  hair.  "Good  morning,  and 
thank  you  for  all  your  information.  Would  you — 
shake?" 

He  extended  his  hand.  I  gave  him  mine.  But 
Lesley,  with  the  faintest  lifting  of  penciled  eye- 
brows, only  bowed  and  passed  on. 

''Do  you  always  make  friends  in  that  free-and- 
easy  manner?"  she  asked,  as  we  walked  home- 
ward. 

"Not  always,"  I  said.  "But  you  must  remember 
I  am  a  student  of  life.  What  harm  was  there  in 
exchanging  those  few  words?  I  knew  he  was  an 
American,  and  I  think  they  are  so  interesting.  And 
they  are  always  polite  to  women." 

"So  their  own  women  say,"  she  answered.  "It  is 
because  they  are  so  used  to  exacting  that  they  come 
over  here  to  monopolize." 

"They  do  take  our  best  titles,  there's  no  doubt  of 
that,"  I  observed. 

"Well,  I  used  rather  to  admire  them  until  that 
Mrs.  Washington  E.  Decker  took  to  walking  in  the 
Park  with  a  diamond-handled  umbrella,  and  a  long 
chain  hanging  from  her  neck  containing  a  sort  of 
transparent  locket  in  which  was  a  cigar-end  that  the 
Kaiser  had  once  smoked.  That  cured  my  admira- 
tion." 

I  laughed  softly.  "I  know.  She  called  it  her 
'Relic.'  But  after  all,  Lesley,  it  isn't  fair  to  judge 
a  nation  by  its  travelling  samples.  We  English 
haven't  an  all-round  reputation  in  that  line." 

"But  we  don't  chip  off  stones  whenever  we  come 
across  an  historical  edifice,  or  gather  up  the  refuse 
of  royalty." 

"But  we  do  scribble  our  names  over  any  available 
space,  or  cut  them  into  the  walls  of  history,"  I  said. 


A   JILT'S   JOURNAL.  219 

"You'll  find  the  British  tourist  has  left  'John  Smith, 
his  mark,'  even  at  Scarffe." 

"You  are  more  liberal-minded  than  I  am,  Paula." 

"I  don't  know  that.  I  have  my  prejudices,  but 
the  peculiarities  of  people  make  their  characters.  If 
you've  read  Dickens  you  must  have  found  that 
every  character  he  introduces  is  labeled  with  some 
eccentricity — I  mean  the  principal  characters.  The 
Americans  call  them  'freaks,'  not  human  beings." 

"I  suppose  no  American  ever  came  across  such 
characters." 

"Have  we?"  I  asked. 

"They  are  types  of  a  time  with  which  we  have 
had  nothing  to  do." 

"But  types  of  human  character  must  be  true  to 
human  nature  for  all  time — for  any  age." 

"Well,  and  isn't  Pecksniff  the  hypocrite  of  all 
time?  Isn't  Dombey  the  type  of  hard  and  preten- 
tious pride,  and  old  Dorrit  of  selfishness,  and  Peg- 
gotty  of  faithful  love,  and  Dora  of  pretty  silliness 
that  is  so  attractive  to  very  young  men  ?  One  could 
go  on  repeating  them  ad  lib. — but " 

The  sound  of  hoofs  at  a  rapid  rate  made  us  draw 
aside.  A  groom  in  the  St.  Quinton  livery  was  com- 
ing along.  He  seemed  to  recognize  me,  drew  rein, 
and  touched  his  hat. 

"Beg  pardon,  miss,  I  was  taking  a  letter  to 
you." 

He  handed  it  to  me  and  I  ran  my  eyes  rapidly 
over  it. 

"Lady  St.  Quinton  wants  to  know  if  we'd  like  the 
riding  horses  this  afternoon,"  I  said  to  Lesley. 
"Shall  I  say  yes?" 

Her  eyes  sparkled.  "Oh,  do!  I'd  love  a  ride 
above  all  things." 


220  A   JILT'S   JOURNAL. 

"She  says,  'Tell  the  groom  what  time,'  so  I 
needn't  write." 

I  turned  to  the  man.  "Tell  her  ladyship  four 
o'clock,  if  she'll  be  so  kind.  It's  cooler  then." 

He  touched  his  hat  again  and  rode  off. 

"Now  you  can  show  me  Adam  Herivale's  farm," 
said  Lesley. 

"Very  well ;  we'll  ride  past  it  and  over  that  range 
of  hills  to  the  Beacon  Cove.  It's  an  adorable  little 
place.  We  can  rest  the  horses  and  have  some  tea. 
How  kind  of  Lady  St.  Quinton  to  think  of  us !" 

"I  suppose  there's  no  one  at  Court  who  rides," 
said  Lesley. 

"I  think  she  has  some  people  staying  with  her. 
You  know  she's  asked  us  for  Friday,  and  the  pro- 
fessor has  half  promised  to  come  also." 

"He's  an  old  dear,"  said  Lesley,  warmly.  "It 
does  one  good  to  know  that  such  a  man  does  exist  in 
this  false,  fantastic  age." 

"He  is  an  old  dear.  There's  no  time  to  argue 
about  the  age,  for  here  we  are,  and  I  expect  luncheon 
is  ready." 


CHAPTER  III. 

I  HAD  not  seen  Adam  Herivale  since  my  return. 
We  rode  past  Woodcote,  its  fruitful  fields  now  rip- 
ening for  harvest.  The  house  itself  was  bowered 
in  honeysuckle  and  clematis  and  jessamine.  I 
glanced  somewhat  anxiously  about  as  our  horses 
trotted  past,  and  we  had  scarcely  left  it  behind  when 
I  caught  sight  of  a  figure  on  the  road  before  us.  I 
knew  it  at  a  glance.  His  horse  was  going  at  a 
walking  pace,  and  as  we  neared  the  rider  looked 
round,  then  drew  aside  as  if  to  let  us  pass. 

But  I  was  determined  to  speak. 

"How  are  you,  Adam?  You  see  I  have  come 
back." 

He  lifted  his  cap.  "I  am  quite  well,  thank  you, 
Miss  Trent."  (No  "Paula"  now.)  "I  hope  you 
are?" 

"Oh,  yes.  London  didn't  kill  me,  you  see.  I  feel 
much  the  same  as  when  I  went  away." 

Then  I  introduced  Lesley,  and  asked  after  his 
mother. 

"We  are  going  to  the  Beacon  Cove,"  I  added. 
"How  far  is  it  to  ride?" 

"It's  a  very  long  way,"  he  answered.  "Too  long 
for  two  young  ladies  to  go  alone,  I  should  say. 
You'll  have  to  rest  the  horses,  and  you  won't  be 
bock  till  eight  or  nine  o'clock  to-night." 

"I  can't  help  that.  We've  made  up  our  minds  to 
go.  Miss  Heath  is  only  to  be  a  week  with  me,  and 
every  day  is  mapped  out." 

221 


222  A.   JILT'S   JOUKNAL. 

He  looked  at  her  with  that  wondering  admiration 
I  had  seen  in  so  many  men's  eyes.  That  lovely 
little  white  face,  with  its  deep  eyes,  had  an  irresist- 
ible attraction. 

"If  I  should  not  be  intruding,"  he  said  diffidently, 
"I  could  show  you  a  much  shorter  way  of  getting  to 
the  cove.  That  coach-road  is  very  tedious.  It  winds 
about  so." 

"Oh,  will  you  ?"  I  cried  delightedly. 

And  that  settled  it. 

We  rode  abreast  when  the  road  allowed  of  it,  and 
I  gave  shy  glances  at  the  face  I  had  not  seen  for  so 
long.  I  had  plenty  others  in  my  memory  with 
which  to  contrast  it.  Handsomer,  more  refined, 
more  intellectual,  but  in  none  of  them  had  I  seen 
that  strength  and  calmness  so  characteristic  of 
Adam's.  That  wholesome,  candid,  fearless  honesty 
which  was  as  the  imprint  of  a  clean  and  fearless 
soul. 

He  talked  more  to  Lesley  than  to  me,  but  I  had 
no  objection  to  that.  I  seemed,  indeed,  to  acquire  a 
new  knowledge  of  him  while  playing  the  part  of 
listener.  How  was  it  he  talked  so  well,  and  had  so 
cultured  a  knowledge?  He  must  have  read  and 
studied  a  great  deal  since  we  had  parted,  or  else 
Lesley  had  a  happy  knack  of  drawing  him  out,  and 
making  him  reveal  undiscovered  corners  of  his  mind 
that  I  had  passed  by. 

It  was,  as  he  had  said,  a  very  long  way  to  the 
cove,  and  but  for  his  skilful  piloting  would  have 
been  longer. 

I  found  myself  wondering  how  it  was  that  frank 
and  easy  comradeship  was  so  possible  with  this  man, 
and  that  the  pruderies  and  pretences  of  sex  de- 
manded by  social  intercourse  in  the  fashionable 


A   JILT'S   JOURNAL.  223 

world  were  here  quite  superfluous.  Adam  Heri- 
vale  would  not,  and  I  felt  sure  could  not,  bring  a 
blush  to  a  girl's  cheek,  or  misinterpret  her  friendly 
advances.  He  was  courteous,  cool,  polite,  some- 
times forgetting  and  adopting  the  homely  phrase- 
ology of  his  country  habits.  But  all  the  time  I  was 
conscious  of  a  change  in  him.  A  change  that  set 
us  apart.  A  rift  in  the  lute  of  friendly  intimacy  that 
had  played  such  pleasant  music  once.  He  asked  no 
questions  as  to  my  doings  in  London,  but  I  noticed 
he  listened  eagerly  to  any  chance  word  of  Lesley's 
that  threw  light  upon  them. 

When  we  arrived  at  the  cove  we  went  to  the  one 
little  hotel  of  which  the  place  boasted.  There  we 
all  had  tea  in  a  large  bow-windowed  room  looking 
out  on  the  sea. 

Lesley  was  enchanted  with  the  place.  It  consisted 
of  a  single  street  of  picturesque  thatched  cottages, 
bowered  in  greenery  and  roses.  The  street  led  down 
an  incline  to  a  sort  of  basin  which  formed  the  cove. 
Beyond  this  inlet  lay  the  wide,  open  waters  of  the 
Channel,  blue  as  indigo  under  the  warm  and  cloud- 
less sky.  The  cove  itself  was  shut  in  completely  on 
two  sides  by  high,  chalky  cliffs,  and  at  the  little 
landing-place  were  dozens  of  fishing  boats,  their 
owners  lounging  on  the  rough,  pebbly  strand  in 
that  attitude  of  alert  idleness  peculiar  to  fisher 
folk. 

We  refused  invitations  for  a  sail  or  row,  and  went 
up  the  steep  ascent  to  the  flagstaff,  and  sat  down  on 
the  grass  to  rest  and  take  in  the  charm  of  our  sur- 
roundings. 

"I'm  not  surprised  that  artists  come  here,"  said 
Lesley.  "I  feel  tempted  to  bring  a  pencil-and-paper 
memory  away  with  me." 


224  A  JILT'S   JOURNAL. 

"Can't  you  take  a  mental  photograph?"  I  sug- 
gested. 

"There  is  too  much  of  it,  and  it's  all  so  beautiful 
one  doesn't  like  to  miss  anything  out." 

I  felt  I  wasn't  leaving  "anything  out,"  and  re- 
lapsed into  silence. 

Here,  as  at  Scarffe,  we  were  shut  in  from  bleak 
surroundings  by  a  circle  of  hills,  their  brown  level 
varied  by  patches  of  green,  where  sheep  cropped  and 
strayed.  Before  us,  as  we  rested  now,  was  a  jagged 
line  of  rocks  broken  off  from  the  mainland,  and  full 
of  hollows,  into  which  the  sea  poured  and  foamed. 
Through  natural  arches  one  looked  at  the  wide- 
spreading  water  beyond,  calm  now  in  the  mellow 
evening  light.  About  us  was  an  undisturbed  peace. 
Sky  and  sea  held  that  deep  blue  that  rests  the  eye 
almost  as  its  kindred  color  green  can  do — the  two 
hues  of  Nature  of  which  one  never  wearies. 

White  sails  flashed  in  the  far  distance.  A 
steamer's  smoke  trailed  like  a  blurred  shadow  across 
the  horizon ;  the  sweet  salt  air  blew  softly  up  and  left 
its  cool  touch  on  our  faces.  No  wonder  artists 
loved  this  nook  of  shallow  waters,  and  brown  rock, 
and  silvery  sand,  and  changeful  sunsets;  and  had 
immortalized  those  quaint  cottages  bowered  in 
fuchsia  and  honeysuckle  and  cabbage  roses. 

I  was  so  lost  in  thought  and  in  imagining  a  life 
set  amidst  these  surroundings  that  I  paid  no  atten- 
tion to  my  companions.  I  heard  them  talking,  but 
their  words  passed  me  by,  even  as  the  breeze  did, 
that  touched  my  hair  in  its  passage  from  the  sea  to 
the  waiting  hills  above. 

I  was  roused  by  an  eager  exclamation. 

"Well,  now,"  it  said,  "if  this  isn't  luck !  I  thought 
I  recognized  your  heir,  Fve  never  seen  a«y  l&e  it. " 


A   JILT'S   JOURNAL.  225 

I  looked  up,  startled,  into  the  joyous  face  of  my 
American  acquaintance  of  the  morning. 

"How  on  earth  did  you  get  here?"  I  gasped. 

"Guess  I  just  hired  a  horse  from  the  manager  of 
that  ho-tel.  He  told  me  this  was  one  of  the  places 
that  had  to  be  seen,  so  I  just  had  to  see  it." 

I  laughed  with  genuine  amusement.  "Well,  you 
are  energetic,"  I  said.  "Did  you  get  through  the 
ruins  before  lunch,  and  then  ride  on  to  the  cove?" 

"I  did.  They  were  ver-ry  fine  and  ver-ry  inter- 
esting, but  they  didn't  take  more  than  a  couple  of 
hours  to  get  through.  And  when  I'd  got  through,  I 
didn't  want  to  waste  time,  so  I  asked  the  landlord 
what  next,  and  he  advised — this.  But  only  fancy 
seeing  you!  Well " 

He  looked  so  ecstatic  that  I  concluded  my  hair 
had  won  for  me  my  usual  fate. 

"I  rode  over,  too,"  I  said,  "and  had  tea.  We're 
going  back  directly." 

"Oh,  I  don't  want  any  tea,"  he  answered.  "It 
gives  me  dyspepsia.  You  people  over  here  drink  a 
great  deal  too  much  of  it.  Wonder  you're  not  all 
nerves.  Look  here,  hadn't  we  better  exchange 
names.  I've  left  my  cards  behind  at  the  boarding- 
house,  but  my  name's  Quain — Dr.  Mark  Christo- 
pher Quain — of  New  York  City." 

"Oh,"  I  said,  "I'm  very  pleased  to  meet  you,  Dr. 
Quain.  I  met  several  of  your  countrymen  and — 
women — in  London  this  season,  but  you're  the  first 
doctor  I've  come  across.  Is  this  your  first  visit  to 
England?" 

"No,"  he  said,  "my  third.  I've  always  taken  a 
trip  across  when  I  could  spare  a  holiday.  It's 
ver-ry  interesting,  is  Eu-rope;  ver-ry  interesting." 

"It  is  considered  so,"  I  answered.     "I've  never 


226  A   JILT'S   JOURNAL. 

been  out  of  England  myself.  But'  of  course  one 
reads  so  much  that  one  almost  gets  to  know  foreign 
places." 

I  was  a  little  distance  from  Lesley,  to  whom  he 
had  bowed,  but  now,  in  answer  to  a  certain  discom- 
posed look  in  Adam  Herivale's  face,  I  introduced 
my  new  acquaintance  cursorily  as  Dr.  Quain  from 
New  York. 

Lesley's  eyes  flashed  surprise,  but  she  soon  turned 
and  resumed  her  conversation  with  Adam. 

I  went  on  with  mine,  delighted  at  the  breezy 
manner  and  apparently  unlimited  acquaintance  with 
everything,  characteristic  of  my  new  friend. 

"What  a  number  of  places  you've  seen!"  I  ex- 
claimed, as  he  ran  over  a  list.  "And  how  you  seem 
to  have  enjoyed  them !" 

"So  I  have,"  he  said.  "I've  just  had  a  fascinating 
time." 

"Isn't  this  a  lovely  little  spot?"  I  asked.  "It's 
the  first  time  I've  ever  seen  it." 

"You  don't  say? — and  living  so  close!" 

"But  I  haven't  lived  at  Scarffe ;  only  spent  a  yearly 
holiday  here,  and  generally  at  Christmas." 

"But  you're  not  at  school  now,  surely?" 

"Oh,  no !    I'm  out,  as  girls  call  it." 

"And  you're  going  to  live  hereabouts?  You  won't 
find  it  very — exciting." 

"I  can't  tell  until  I've  tried  it.  As  yet  it's  been 
only  interesting.  I  was  here  all  the  winter,  then 
went  up  to  London  in  April,  and  came  back  two 
days  ago." 

"Parents  living?" 

"No.  I  live  with  an  uncle,  who  is  my  guardian. 
He  is  very  celebrated.  Perhaps  you've  heard  of  him 
— Professor  Trent?" 


A   JILT'S   JOURNAL.  *87 

"You  don't  say? — your  uncle?  I  should  just 
think  I  had  heard  of  him.  I've  got  his  book  on  the 
famous  ruins  of  England  in  my  trunk.  Told  me 
more  about  Stonehenge  and  Salisbury  than  I'd  ever 
known.  And  your  uncle — well,  I'm  ver-ry  pleased 
to  know  you.  Shake." 

He  extended  his  hand  and  I  gave  him  mine. 

"Is  that  an  American  custom?"  I  asked. 

"Well,  when  one  gets  worked  up  to  enthusiasm, 
it  is." 

"Oh,  then  I  know  what  to  expect.  May  I  ask 
why  you  look  at  my  hair  like  that?" 

"It's  so  wonderful.  I've  never  seen  that  sort  of 
color  but  once  before  in  my  life.  Might  be  matched 
from  yours." 

"Indeed,  and  who  was  the — unfortunate  posses- 
sor?" 

"Come  now,  Miss  Trent,  you  know  better'n  that. 
It's  really  bu — tiful;  like  living  sunshine  let 
loose." 

"More  like  sunset,  I  think.  It's  a  source  of  trouble 
to  me.  Perhaps  as  you're  a  doctor  you  can  explain 
the  chemical  reasons  for  such  a  remarkable  color." 

"Well,  I'm  not  exactly  a  medical  doctor,"  he  ex- 
plained. "Dentistry's  my  line.  I'm  over  here  now 
to  join  a  branch  established  on  our  American  sys- 
tem." 

The  word  gave  me  a  little  shock.  "Dentistry!" 
I  exclaimed.  "Then  why  do  you  call  yourself  a 
doctor  ?" 

"Because  I  guess  I  am  a  doctor  of  dental  surgery. 
I've  taken  all  my  degrees,  though  I'm  only  twenty- 
six." 

"Oh !"  I  said  indifferently,  wondering  why  Amer- 
icans always  explained  so  much.  "But  over  here  we 


228  A    JILT'S   JOUENAL. 

don't  call  dentists  doctors.  I  thought  you  were  a 
medical  man." 

"Well,  in  one  sort  of  way  I  am.  I  guess  my 
science  is  as  important  as  curing  fevers,  or  dosing 
folks  with  drugs.  I've  noticed  you  people  over  here 
have  a  sort  of  prejudice  against  the  name  'dentist.' 
Seems  queer.  Why,  we  study  and  go  to  college  and 
take  degrees  same  as  the  medicos.  We  have 
brought  our  profession  to  as  near  per-fection  as  it 
can  be  brought.  But  somehow  to  English  minds  a 
dental  surgeon  is  only  a  tooth-extractor.  Over  our 
way  it's  different.  We're  as  good  as  the  medical 
profession  every  bit,  and  have  every  right  to  call 
ourselves  doctors," 

I  felt  somewhat  embarrassed.  It  was  a  first  ex- 
perience, and  I  had  the  usual  schoolgirl's  idea  that 
a  dentist  was  only  a  "tooth-extractor,"  as  he  had 
said.  I  changed  the  subject  by  asking  if  he  were 
going  to  settle  in  London. 

"I  must — for  three  years,"  he  said.  "I  was  sent 
over  to  one  of  our  recent  establishments  and  I'm 
bound  to  stay.  I'm  taking  a  holiday  first.  You 
see  I've  been  frank  and  told  you  exactly  who  I  am 
so  there'd  be  no  mistake.  You  were  so  friendly  I 
shouldn't  like  to  seem  as  if  I'd  taken  advantage 
of  it." 

"Thank  you  for  your  frankness  and  explanation. 
As  you  say,  there  does  exist  a  prejudice — an  odd 
one,  I  suppose.  But  don't  let  that  trouble  us  at 
present.  Tell  me  about  America.  It's  a  country 
that  interests  me  greatly.  It's  so  tremendously  en- 
terprising, and  rich,  and  extravagant." 

I  thought  of  the  Kaiser's  cigar  story,  but  con- 
cluded to  keep  it  to  myself. 

He  waxed  enthusiastic  over  the  glories  of  his 


A  JILT'S  JOURNAL. 

land,  and  I  heard  of  the  vast  extent  covered  by  the 
wings  of  that  celebrated  Bird  of  Freedom — of  mar- 
velous cities,  of  marvelous  inventions  and  still  more 
marvelous  riches. 

There  I  checked  him.  "I  never  can  believe,"  I 
said,  "that  enormous  fortunes  can  be  made  honestly. 
Some  one  has  to  suffer,  something  has  to  be  sacri- 
ficed. Truth,  or  honor,  or  human  lives.  I  have 
read  in  your  own  books  that  gold  is  the  god  of  your 
nation ;  that  you  talk  dollars,  dream  dollars,  live  and 
die  for  dollars.  Is  that  so?" 

"We  are  rather  given  that  way,"  he  allowed. 
"But  I  guess  we're  not  so  different  from  the  rest  of 
the  world." 

"Perhaps  not,"  I  said.  "The  craze  for  wealth 
seems  pretty  universal.  But  the  craze  for  advertis- 
ing one's  millions  is  certainly  an  American  preroga- 
tive. We  may  be  as  avaricious;  we  are  certainly 
less  boastful.  If  you  can't  go  'one  better'  than  your 
brother  millionaire,  you  do  your  best  to  try." 

"I'm  afraid  that's  true.  There's  a  rivalry  in  dol- 
lars as  in  other  things — say " 

"The  height  of  skyscrapers  ?"  I  suggested. 

"I  won't  deny  that,  because  I've  recognized  our 
faults  in  the  light  of  other  folks'  opinions  since  I've 
traveled  about.  But  you  must  be  very  well  read, 
or  very  interested  in  such  matters,  to  know  so  much 
about  them." 

"When  I  was  in  London  I  had  the  privilege  of 
meeting  one  of  your  writers.  He  had  been  a  lead- 
ing journalist  for  many  years  on  a  Boston  paper. 
We  used  to  have  long  talks.  Do  you  know  what 
he  said  to  me  once?  I  had  told  him  that  a  gentle- 
man just  returned  from  the  States  had  said  the 
quantity  of  journals  published  in  America  was  per- 


230  A    JILT'S   JOURNAL. 

fectly  appalling.  'Not  so  appalling  as  the  quality,' 
he  answered." 

"Well,  Miss  Trent,  I  won't  discuss  our  literature 
or  our  faults.  You're  too  young  to  worry  your 
head  about  racial  differences,  and  I'm  not  a  bigoted 
patriot.  Seems  a  pity  to  get  on  any  rock  of  obstruc- 
tion instead  of  keeping  friendly.  Perhaps  you'll 
allow  me  to  join  your  party  on  the  ride  back.  I 
did  get  a  room  at  that  inn,  and  I'm  going  to  stay 
over  to-morrow." 

I  saw  Lesley  had  risen,  so  I  followed  her  example, 
and  we  rode  back  to  Scarffe  two  and  two. 

My  companion  was  Dr.  Mark  Christopher  Quain. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

THE  steed  borrowed  from  the  landlord  of  the 
Deerhound  was  not  up  to  the  standard  of  the  Quin- 
ton  Court  stables,  and  I  had  to  keep  pace,  or  leave 
my  companion  behind. 

"I'm  spoiling  your  ride,"  he  said. 

"Well,  you  can  talk  as  we  go  along.  There's  no 
fear  of  our  getting  lost  even  if  we're  out  till  moon- 
rise.  By-the-by,  you  said  you  had  once  seen  some- 
one with  hair  that  matched  mine.  Who  was  it,  and 
where?" 

"As  for  where — it  was  in  America  I  saw  her.  She 
was,  and  is,  an  actress.  A  ver-ry  beautiful  woman, 
and  renowned  for  her  wonderful  hair.  She  acted  in 
a  piece  where  it  all  has  to  tumble  down,  and  she  just 
drew  the  whole  town  to  see  her  in  that  act.  I  went 
myself  every  night  for  a  week.  It  was  like  a  cata- 
ract of  golden  rain.  Sort  of  thing  you  see  when  a 
rocket  goes  off.  So  light,  so  bright,  fairly  dazzled 
you.  And  she  could  act — no  doubt  about  that." 

My  interest  quickened.     "What  was  her  name?" 

"Desallion — Mrs.  Desallion." 

"Oh,  not  an  American,  or  she'd  have  the  initials 
of  half  the  alphabet." 

He  laughed.  "I  see  you  know  us — some.  No, 
she  wasn't  American.  No  one  could  quite  say  what 
nation,  and  she'd  never  tell.  She  used  to  rile  the 
interviewers.  Laugh  in  their  faces  and  tell  them  to 
guess.  And  each  one  gave  her  a  different  birth^ 

m 


232  A  JILT'S   JOURNAL. 

right.  They  were  mad  when  the  papers  came  out. 
Oh,  there's  no  mistake  she's  clever !" 

"And  acts  well?" 

"Oh,  fine!  Thrills  you  through  and  through. 
Makes  you  in  love  with  wickedness,  for  it's  always 
wicked  women  she  plays.  Men  go  wild  about  her. 
But  she's  not  one  to  waste  her  fervors  or  her  favors. 
'Cute  all  through  and  an  eye  to  the  main  chance — 
that's  Nina  Desallion." 

He  pronounced  the  name  softly  as  if  it  held  two 
s's.  I  murmured  it  over  half  aloud  for  the  pure 
pleasure  of  hearing  it,  I  thought  it  so  charming. 

"Done  some  queer  things,  though,"  he  went  on, 
warming  to  my  interest.  "Cut  the  stage  once  and 
joined  the  Salvation  Army,  and  took  to  going  about 
with  a  tambourine,  for  all  the  world  like  the  girl  in 
'The  Belle  of  New  York.'  Of  course  that  set  the 
men  crazy.  They  sort  of  clung  to  religion  for  a 
spell;  said  'twas  an  ultimate  refuge.  But  it  didn't 
last  long.  None  of  her  crazes  do.  She  went  back 
to  the  stage  in  six  months.  She  says  she  tires  of  a 
man  in  one.  So  that  religion  was  five  degrees  bet- 
ter." 

"That  sounds  rather — shocking,"  I  said,  and  yet 
even  as  I  said  it  I  thought  of  my  own  capacity  for 
change,  and  my  own  inability  to  discover  in  any 
man  I  had  met  sufficient  to  interest  me  for  even  a 
week.  With  a  new  subject  for  experiment  I  began 
to  touch  that  delicate  ground. 

"Do  you  think,"  I  said,  "that  a  woman  should  be 
blamed  because  she  can't  find  a  man  capable  of 
holding  her  love,  as  well  as  winning  it  ?  That  seems 
to  me  the  problem  of  life.  You  men  all  think  that 
your  duty  ends  with  the  winning.  From  my  point 
of  view  I  should  say  it  only  began." 


A  JILTS  JOURNAL.  333 

(It  wasn't  my  point  of  view.  It  was  Fenella's. 
But  I  had  imbibed  so  much  of  Fenella's  philosophy 
that  I  had  begun  to  make  it  my  own.) 

He  looked  at  me  with  the  awakening-  interest  I 
had  learned  to  arouse  in  a  man's  face.  The  interest 
that  tells  a  girl  she  has  suddenly  presented  herself 
in  a  light  different  from  that  of  other  girls. 

"Only  begun,"  he  repeated.  "Do  you  mean  when 
a  man  has  loved  and  served  and  waited,  and  at  last 
won  the  woman  he  loves,  that  he  still  hasn't  won 
her?" 

"He  has  won  her  heart  truly  only  when  he  satisfies 
it  completely.  But  if  it  isn't  satisfied  it  will  stray, 
as  surely  as  a  bird  will  fly  through  the  opened  door 
of  its  cage.  Love  alone  makes  a  lasting  bond  be- 
tween two  human  hearts.  Show  me  a  man  with  the 
record  of  a  woman's  life-long  love,  and  I  will  con- 
fess him  a  greater  hero  than  our  bestarred  and  titled 
conquerors." 

"There's  stories  in  history.  There's  your  own 
Shakespeare's  great  tragedy " 

"I  said  life-long.  Those  people  scarcely  tasted 
love  before  life  was  ended.  That  is  no  proper  test." 

"But — well,  you  see,  Miss  Trent,  you're  so  very 
young  to  discuss  such  a  point!" 

"Don't  American  girls  discuss  every  point  at  is- 
sue with  so  momentous  a  thing  as  marriage  ? — every 
social  law  and  obligation?  Does  a  woman  owe  so 
little  to  the  fact  of  being  a  woman  that  she  can  ig- 
nore the  responsibilities  of  her  sex,  or  the  critical 
exactions  of  her  nature?  A  man  promises  her  love 
measureless,  eternal.  She  believes  him  capable  of 
rendering  it,  but  he  isn't.  She  looks  for  the  infinite 
and  finds  a  limit.  From  what  source  can  content 
spring?" 


234  A   JILT'S    JOURNAL. 

(Paula  felt  very  proud  of  herself  at  that  mo- 
ment. It  was  not  often  that  thought  flowed  so 
readily  into  the  channels  of  speech.  Not  often 
that  a  listener  presented  himself  at  convenient 
moments. ) 

"I  don't  know  how  you've  come  to  know  so  much 
about  love  and  marriage,  and  the  duties  of  man  to 
woman.  In  America,  of  course,  our  girls  are 
brought  up  with  wide  views  on  all  subjects,  and  can 
talk  on  most  any  of  them.  But  it's  not  often  an 
English  girl  will  do  it." 

"No,"  I  said,  "an  English  girl  thinks  that  an  im- 
personal discussion  on  love  with  a  man  under  sev- 
enty is  indelicate,  and  a  personal  discussion  with  a 
man  over  twenty  would  mean  a  declaration.  Her 
tongue  is  tied,  you  see." 

(Oh,  Paula!  enjoying  your  experiment  and  wear- 
ing the  garb  of  original  philosophy,  and  all  the  time 
a  base  echo.) 

It  did  me  good  to  hear  him  laugh. 

"Permit  me,"  he  said;  "as  I'm  under  seventy  and 
over  twenty — will  you  discuss  love  with  me — im- 
personally ?" 

"Certainly.  It  is  an  opportunity  I  have  always 
desired." 

"Is  that  so?" 

His  eye  flashed  keen  interrogation.  I  answered 
back  with  becoming  gravity,  my  finger  on  a  smile 
that  longed  to  break  bounds.  His  own  composure 
gave  way  first. 

"I  guess  it's  an  experience,"  he  said.  "But,  as 
I  said  before,  you're  ver-ry  interesting.  I  said  that 
to  myself  when  I  left  you  this  morning  and  went 
over  that  gangway  you  told  me  about.  Seemed  as 
if  you  weren't  a  stranger  at  all — but  a  friend  I'd 


A   JILT'S   JOURNAL.  235 

met  and  mislaid,  and  found  again.  They  say  des- 
tiny changes  hands  with  a  hand-clasp." 

"Yes;  and  we  did — shake,"  I  said  demurely.  "But 
please  remember  this  is  to  be  a  discussion  without 
personalities.  We'll  have  a  gallop  first  and  then 
breathe  the  horses.  You  can't  trot  to  an  argu- 
ment." 

I  started  off,  more  to  prepare  myself  by  a  rapid 
summary  of  points  than  to  excuse  a  gallop.  How- 
ever, I  drew  up  at  the  brow  of  the  hill  and  waited 
for  him  to  open  a  gate  which  led  to  one  of  Adam 
Herivale's  "short  cuts." 

We  walked  the  horses  through  a  narrow  lane 
fragrant  with  hedge-row  treasures,  and  green  with 
the  shade  of  larch  and  beech,  and  we  talked — 
whether  wisely  or  foolishly  I  don't  know — of  what 
love  is,  and  was,  and  might,  and  could,  and  should 
be. 

After  this  elaborate  conjugation  we  seemed  very 
much  where  we  had  been  when  we  started,  save  that 
the  discussion  had  made  us  feel  quite  old  friends, 
and  he  wanted  me  to  call  him  "Mark." 

I  told  him  it  was  too  soon.  Then  he  explained  a 
legend  which  stated  that  in  the  embryonic  period  of 
the  world  men  and  women  were  one — a  unity,  not  a 
division.  That  at  a  later  period  of  time  they  sepa- 
rated and  became  two  distinct  beings.  Now,  at  rare 
intervals,  some  fragments  of  their  earlier  selves  met 
and  knew  each  other,  and  were  drawn  back  into  an 
overwhelming  desire  for  that  old  lost  union.  This 
explained  sudden  love,  sudden  friendship;  the  as- 
surance of  a  quickly  awakened  sympathy.  It  also, 
so  it  seemed,  explained  why  we  should  be  "Mark 
and  Paula"  in  his  opinion. 

I  failed,  however,  to  discover  in  myself  any  hint 


236  A  JILT'S   JOURNAL. 

of  that  past  intercommunion,  or  any  desire  for  its 
renewal. 

So  I  took  another  gallop,  and  my  kindred  soul 
had  to  follow,  and  landed  breathlessly  behind  me  as 
we  came  in  sight  of  Adam  Herivale's  farm. 

Here  I  found  the  others  resting  the  horses,  and 
drew  rein  beside  them. 

"Where  is  your  friend?"  asked  Lesley. 

"Plodding  on  behind,"  I  answered.  "Mr.  Heri- 
vale,  there's  no  need  to  trouble  you  for  further 
escort.  Miss  Heath  and  I  will  leave  the  horses 
at  the  Court  lodge  and  walk  home  across  the 
fields." 

"You'll  be  too  tired,"  he  said.  "Hadn't  you  bet- 
ter let  one  of  my  men  take  them  back,  and  I'll  drive 
you  home." 

I  looked  at  Lesley  and  then  across  the  darkening 
valley.  "Very  well,"  I  said,  "as  it  is  so  late  that 
would  be  a  better  plan.  May  I  run  in  and  have  a 
chat  with  your  mother  for  a  few  moments?" 

"I'm  sure  she  would  be  very  pleased,"  he  an- 
swered. "She  was  saying  to-day  you  hadn't  been 
to  see  her  since  your  return  from  town." 

He  helped  us  dismount,  and  summoned  one  of  the 
farm  hands. 

Just  then  Dr.  Quain  approached.  I  told  him  of 
our  change  of  plans  and  saw  his  look  of  disappoint- 
ment. But  I  had  been  cautioning  myself  against 
that  unwise  proceeding  known  as  "making  oneself 
too  cheap."  He  had  been  just  as  useful,  as  enter- 
taining and  as  interesting  as  I  wanted  him  to  be. 
It  seemed  a  pity  to  add  five  minutes'  boredom  to  that 
sense  of  entertainment. 

He  ambled  off  to  Scarffe,  and  Lesley  and  I  sat  on 
in  fefoe  swfeet  old  fragrant  parlor,  talking  to  Mrs. 


A   JILT'S   JOURNAL.  237 

Herivale  and  watching  the  moon  rise  over  the  circ- 
ling hill. 

"How  restful  it  is!"  I  said — after  we  had  dis- 
cussed my  visit  to  London  and  my  dip  into  the 
waters  of  Society;  after  she  had  surveyed  me  with 
that  calm,  wise  regard  that  seemed  to  me  always 
the  garnered  essence  of  motherhood,  and  pronounced 
me  "very  little  changed." 

"Yes,"  she  agreed.  "And  there's  no  better  thing 
than  rest  when  it  comes  to  the  ending  of  days.  Some 
run  quickly  through  life,  and  with  others  'tis  a 
slow  parting.  I  think  it's  meant  that  the  tarry- 
ing hours  should  be  an  education  of  the  tarry- 
ing soul." 

There  was  a  pathos  in  her  voice  and  in  her  quiet 
face  that  touched  me  with  fear. 

"You  are  not  feeling  worse  than  when  I  went 
away?"  I  asked. 

"Much  better,  my  dear,  much  better,"  she  said. 
"I've  had  many  years  given  to  me  to  learn  content ; 
and  when  one  has  known  months  of  pain  you  get 
grateful  for  a  day  that's  free  of  suffering.  I've  had 
many  days — of  late." 

"That's  a  good  sign,  surely,"  I  said. 

She  smiled.  "Good  or  bad,  my  dear,  it  makes 
but  little  difference  to  the  end  that  comes  to  all. 
Queen  and  beggar,  sovereign  and  subject,  rich  and 
poor.  'Tis  a  wonderful  mystery,  and  we  only  seem 
to  see  the  wonder  of  it  as  the  day  of  life  begins  to 
close — even  as  we  only  see  the  beauty  of  night  when 

the  sun  has  set." 

****** 

"That  was  a  beautiful  thought,"  said  Lesley,  later 
on,  as  we  were  driving  home. 

She  hod  been  silent  90  long  that  Adam  and  I  tfoth 


A  JILT'S   JOURNAL. 

looked  at  her,  as  if  for  a  clew  to  that  expressed 
thought. 

"What  one?"  I  asked. 

"About  only  seeing  the  beauty  of  night  when  the 
sun  has  set.  Is  vour  mother  a  great  sufferer,  Mr. 
Herivale?" 

"She  never  complains,"  he  said.  "Her  patience 
is  so  great  that  it's  always  been  hard  to  get  her  to 
even  confess  she's  ailing.  This  hot  summer  seems 
to  have  weakened  her,  though.  She's  less  active 
and  quieter  by  far." 

"You  must  be  very  fond  of  her?" 

"I  am/'  he  said ;  "I  don't  know  who  could  help  it. 
And  as  for  father — she's  just  the  heart  of  him,  so  to 
say.  I  dread  to  think  of  what  the  parting  hour  will 
mean  to  him.  I  think  she  dreads  it,  too." 

"But  there's  a  long  time,  let  us  hope,  before  that 
parting  hour." 

"We  do  hope  it,"  he  answered  gravely.  "But  the 
doctor  seemed  anxious  about  her  the  last  time  he 
called.  She's  weaker,  and  doesn't  seem  to  care 
about  things  in  the  same  way." 

"I  wonder  why  life  is  so  cruel,"  cried  Lesley, 
suddenly.  "If  we  are  happy,  or  content,  or  have 
just  gained  something  that  we  desire  and  value, 
straightway  it  all  ends!  Sickness,  death,  division, 
loss — oh  !  how  one  wonders  why  one  is  born  at  all !" 

"Ah,  Miss  Heath,"  said  Adam,  gravely,  "it's  early 
days  for  youth  and  beauty  such  as  yours  to  utter 
words  so  despairing !  I  think  there's  too  much  now- 
adays of  expecting  all  the  good  of  life,  and  not 
enough  thankfulness  at  escaping  the  evil.  For  you, 
and  for  Miss  Paula  there,  no  great  sorrow  or  suffer- 
ing can  be  more  than  a  name — as  yet.  You  see 
others  suffering,  and  your  own  joyfulness  resents  it. 


A   JILT'S   JOURNAL.  239 

"Tis  like  a  blot  on  the  page  you're  reading,  but  it 
needn't  set  you  blaming  life — or  rather  what  created 
life.  You  have  to  learn  a  great  deal  more,  and  per- 
haps suffer  too,  before  you  realize  it  as  worthless." 

Paula,  the  impetuous,  put  in  her  oar  then. 

"One  must  generalize  sometimes,  Adam.  It  is 
quite  impossible  to  look  on  at  life  with  indifference. 
Sorrow  and  loss  are  everywhere,  and  their  shadow 
hovers  over  every  tie  of  love  and  nature.  God  puts 
us  into  life,  as  you  say,  but  we  have  to  grope  hope- 
lessly about  trying  to  find  out  its  meaning.  Our 
very  religious  faith  is  a  mere  accident  of  birth.  We 
are  Protestants,  Catholics,  Buddhists,  Puritans  or 
Atheists,  according  to  our  early  training.  If  we 
obey  the  commandment  of  obedience  to  parents  we 
must  believe  as  they  believe,  and  worship  as  they 
worship.  All  sects  are  authoritative  as  to  that 
special  duty.  But  who  is  to  decide  which  of  them 
all  is  the  right?" 

"I  hardly  suppose  sects  are  important  to  the  Al- 
mighty Himself;  and  though,  as  you  say,  Miss 
Trent,  He  puts  us  on  the  stage  of  life,  He  has  given 
us  free  will  as  a  conscious  inheritance.  We  know 
wrong  from  right.  It's  not  easy  to  explain — but 
there's  a  direction  given  us — an  inner  spring  that 
moves  our  lives.  We  need  only  come  out  face  to 
face  with  Nature,  and  lie  passive  till  the  message 
reaches  us.  It'll  come  safe  enough  if  we  don't  close 
our  ears  or  choke  our  hearts  with  the  dust  and  dross 
of  earthly  vanities." 

"You  are  a  pagan,  Adam,"  I  said,  laughing. 
"But,  I'm  not  sure  that  Nature  is  altogether  a  safe 
teacher.  She  has  cruelties  as  well  as  mercies,  blows 
as  well  as  kisses.  Her  face  is  as  changeful  as  a 
woman's  mind,  and  her  temper  as  uncertain." 


240  A  JILT'S   JOURNAL. 

"Miss  Paula,  you  always  bettered  me  at  an  argu- 
ment, and  I've  never  found  it  easy  to  speak  of  things 
that  I  feel  very  much.  I'm  quite  sure  you  under- 
stand what  I  mean,  but  you  won't  pretend  to." 

In  the  clear,  soft  light  I  met  his  eyes.  I  saw 
their  sorrow  and  their  pain,  and  my  heart  grew 
weak,  and  I  felt  ashamed. 

I  recognized  in  that  moment  some  height  to 
which  I  could  not  reach.  All  about  me  grew  dim 
and  dream-like;  and  I  held  my  peace,  as  did  he. 

But  he  had  made  me  remember  as  he  remem- 
bered 


CHAPTER  V. 

I  WAS  standing  by  the  window  looking  out  at  a 
star-lit  world,  dew-pearled  and  luminous,  and  full  of 
a  beauty  that  made  my  heart  ache. 

Why  it  should  ache  I  cannot  say,  but  it  did;  and 
odds  and  ends  of  poetry  floated  to  my  mind,  and  I 
was  as  sentimental,  as  romantic,  as  passionately  de- 
sirous of  some  vague  happiness  necessary  to  com- 
plete this  beauty  as  any  heroine  of  fiction.  I  seemed 
to  be  a  part  of  a  dream.  This  stillness  that  yet  was 
not  silence,  since  absolute  silence  has  no  existence, 
this  weird  charm  of  moonlight  and  shadow,  perfume 
and  peace,  breathed  a  spell  I  had  never  known  be- 
fore. All  was  so  vague,  so  beautiful,  so  unreal ;  and 
most  unreal  of  all  was  Paula  herself,  trembling  with 
some  sense  of  spiritual  awakening ;  hardly  conscious 
of  her  thoughts  or  desires,  but  overpowered  by  a 
sudden  sense  of  longing  to  understand. 

There  might  have  been  a  prayer  in  her  soul  then, 
a  vague  appeal  to  the  Great  Mystery  that  the 
heavens  seem  to  hold — to  something  in  those  spark- 
ling worlds  above  that  no  science  can  explain  with 
any  satisfaction  to  the  inquirer. 

It  had  never  explained  them  to  me.  Only  set  me 
wondering  as  to  what  millions  of  imprisoned  souls 
might  not  be  there,  pitying  this  dark,  tiny  planet 
which  man  deems  so  all-important. 

Fancy  applying  the  nursery  book  of  school  as- 

241 


243  A   JILT'S   JOURNAL. 

tronomy  to  such  a  heaven  as  that  I  gazed  upon,  to 
such  a  moon  as  bathed  the  castle  ruins  in  its  lustrous 
glow ! 

A  touch  on  my  arm  startled  me  almost  into  a 
scream.  I  turned  and  saw  Lesley. 

"I  knocked  and  you  never  answered,  so  I  came  in. 
How  many  hundreds  of  miles  away  were  you, 
Paula  ?  You  look  hardly  awake  yet." 

"It  is  such  a  wonderful  night,"  I  said.  "I  couldn't 
undress  or  go  to  bed.  There's  nothing  affects  me  so 
keenly  as  moonlight.  I  sometimes  think  a  great 
happiness  or  a  great  sorrow  will  come  to  me  on  a 
night  like  this." 

She  made  no  answer;  only  leaned  out  as  I  was 
leaning,  and  looked  as  I  was  looking. 

I  slipped  my  hand  into  her  arm  and  rested  my 
head  against  her.  When  she  began  to  speak  her 
voice  was  so  low,  and  blended  so  harmoniously  with 
the  tender  peace  around,  that  I  felt  myself  listening 
with  a  new  sense  of  pleasure  to  its  always  musical 
accents. 

"It  has  been  a  day  of  surprises,"  she  said.  "Al- 
most too  many  impressions  are  crowded  into  it;  but 
of  them  all,  Paula,  there  is  one  that  stands  out  more 
distinctly  than  all  the  rest.  It  is  the  deep,  strong 
love  that  Adam  Herivale  has  for  you.  You  don't 
answer? — You  know  it?" 

"Yes,"  I  said,  "I  know — not  its  depth  or  its 
strength,  there  has  been  nothing  to  prove  them — 
yet.  But  I  know  he — cares." 

"That  is  a  poor  word  to  express  it,"  she  said. 
"His  life  is  bound  up  in  it." 

"How  can  you  tell?     Surely  he " 

"Now,  Paula,  don't  do  him  that  injustice.  He 
said  nothing.  But  how  he  suffered !  Every  hour  of 


A   JILT'S   JOURNAL.  243 

this  afternoon  and  evening  was  pain  to  him.  You 
asked  how  I  know " 

The  arm  on  which  my  hand  rested  shook 
slightly. 

"I  have  learned,"  she  said,  "by  my  own  experi- 
ence." 

"Lesley!"  I  cried. 

Her  face  was  like  a  bit  of  carved  ivory  in  its 
death-like  whiteness. 

"I  never  meant  to  tell  you,  Paula.  It  would  be 
better  that  I  should  not.  I  never  might  have  felt  a 
temptation  to  do  it,  but  for  Adam  Herivale." 

I  was  silent,  but  my  thoughts  took  a  backward 
flight,  and  I  saw  three  schoolgirls  in  a  little  bedroom 
discussing  the  possibilities  of  life,  and  what  it  might 
mean  for  each  of  them. 

"Lesley,"  I  said,  "you  have  learned — it  has  come 
to  you  ?" 

"Yes,"  she  said.     "It  has  come — and  gone." 

I  turned  to  look  at  her.  That  little  white,  flower- 
like  face,  those  deep,  deep  eyes  were  suddenly  trans- 
formed for  me.  They  represented  the  mystery  of 
womanhood.  Its  hunger,  its  passion,  its  pain. 

"Turn  out  that  light,"  she  said  suddenly,  "and 
then  we  will  sit  here  by  the  window  where  only  the 
stars  can  see  us,  and  I  will  try  to  tell  you." 

I  put  out  the  lamp,  and  silently  came  back  and 
took  the  little  hand  she  held  out  to  me — as  a  child 
appeals  for  protection. 

(Even  then  that  hateful  sense  of  the  dramatic 
import  of  the  scene  flashed  to  my  brain  with  a  hun- 
dred meanings  apart  from  her  own.) 

"I  have  told  no  one,"  she  began.  "I  have  borne 
it  and  hidden  it  till  I  cannot  bear  it  any  longer. 
Paula,  you  remember  when  I  wrote  that  I  was  to 


244  A   JILT'S   JOUENAL. 

spend  a  month  at  the  villa  of  the  Princess  Nadia 
Tchernigov  ?" 

"Yes " 

"Among  the  guests,"  she  said,  "was  a  man — a 
Russian  count  whom  all  the  women  raved  about. 
It  was  not  only  that  he  was  handsome,  well-born, 
rich,  but  he  had  a  charm  indescribable.  To  be 
noticed  by  him  was  a  hall-mark  of  distinction.  I 
was  only  a  foolish  schoolgirl,  as  you  know,  Paula, 
and  I  was  thrown  among  this  set  of  fast,  society 
women — some  of  them  lovely,  most  of  them  reck- 
less, with  no  one  to  give  me  a  word  of  counsel  or 
warning.  When  Count  Zavadoff  singled  me  out 
for  attention  I  became  the  subject  of  bitter  jealousy 
and  openly  displayed  envy.  But  he  did  single  me 
out,  and  his  attention  and  homage  drew  first  my 
fancy,  then  my  wonder,  then  my  heart.  Beside  him 
I  was  but  an  ignorant  girl.  He  was  so  cultured  and 
so  gifted.  There  seemed  nothing  he  could  not 
do— soldier,  litterateur,  artist,  man  of  the  world 
— could  any  girl  resist  the  fascinations  of  such  a 
man?" 

"And  you  loved  him,  Lesley?  You  know  what  it 
is  to — love?"  I  whispered  breathlessly. 

"I  loved  him — yes.  I  love  him  to  this  hour.  I 
shall  love  him  to  my  last  hour  on  earth.  It  is  better 
and  simpler  to  speak  out  the  truth  and  have  done 
with  it,  Paula.  And  now  that  I  have  begun  to 
speak  it  seems  easier.  He  told  me  of  his  own  feel- 
ings, of  my  own  danger " 

"Danger !"  I  echoed. 

"Yes.  He  was  not  free,  Paula.  He  had  a  wife 
— a  helpless,  half-imbecile  creature  whom  fate  had 
cursed  within  two  years  of  their  marriage.  She 
lived  apart  at  one  of  his  great  estates.  As  far  as 


A  JILT'S   JOUKNAL. 

any  obligations  of  the  tie  were  concerned  he  was 
free — but  he  could  not  marry !" 

"And  he  made  you  love  him,  and  then  told  you 
this!"  I  cried  indignantly. 

"I  think  sometimes  he  did  not  know  I  loved  him. 
He  thought  it  was  a  girl's  fancy  and  might  be  easily 
cured.  He  took  that  way  of  curing  it." 

"It  was  horribly  cruel !" 

"It  was  a  great  shock,"  she  said.  "But  those 
women  were  as  much  to  blame,  for  they  knew,  and 
left  me  to  drift  on  to  my  doom." 

"But  didn't  Lady  Archie  say  anything?" 

"She  never  seemed  to  notice — and  I  believe  she 
also  thought  I  knew  he  wasn't  free.  And  it  all 
came  about  so  strangely." 

I  saw  her  close  her  eyes,  and  suddenly  she  put  her 
hands  up  to  her  face  as  if  to  hide  it. 

"I  never  think  of  it,  Paula,  but  I  see  a  dazzling 
sky  and  a  dazzling  sea,  so  bright  they  seem  to  beat 
into  my  brain.  I  never  want  to  see  that  coast  again 
unless  I  have  learned  to  forget.  And  now  you 
know  why  I  have  accepted  Lord  Lynmouth !" 

"Oh,  Lesley!" 

"It  may  sound  wrong  to  you,  Paula,  but  I  know 
what  I  am  doing.  I  want  a  defence;  marriage  is 
the  best.  If  we  ever  meet  again  I — am  safe." 

"Are  you  safe?  If  I  am  to  judge  by  the  stories  I 
have  heard,  the  scenes  I  have  witnessed,  marriage  is 
not  always  a  safeguard  to  other  passions.  It  neither 
prevents  nor  forbids  them." 

"I  shall  not  be  a  woman  like  Lady  Brancepeth. 
My  very  experience  is  my  safeguard.  There  is  no 
coldness  like  that  of  a  heart  that  has  known  love — 
and  foregone  it." 

"Oh,  my  dear,  my  dear — and  but  a  few  months 


246  A   JILT'S   JOUEtfAL. 

ago  you  were  so  happy,  and  all  life  seemed  a 
jest!" 

"It  is  never  a  jest,  Paula.  We  should  not  pretend 
it  or  believe  it.  Childhood  has  its  sorrows,  and 
youth  and  maturity  theirs.  When  I  think  of  those 
days,  and  then  of  one  that  changed  everything  for 
me,  I  seem  to  have  left  that  self  I  knew  behind. 
There  ought  to  be  a  pale  ghost  sitting  on  a  rock  of 
that  seaboard  below  Eza — a  ghost  looking  out  at  a 
blue  haze  that  dazzles  and  glitters,  and  then  fades 
into  a  blackness  no  earthly  night  can  bring.  The 
ghost  of  myself,  Paula — something  from  which  I 
walked  away,  saying  'Good-by  —  good-by  —  I 
have  left  you  forever;  I  shall  never  meet  you 
again/  ' 

"And  it  was — this — that  changed  you — not  the 
season,  as  I  fancied?" 

"Yes — it  was  this." 

"And  did  it  end  like  that?  '  You  never  met  him 
again  ?" 

"No;  he  went  away.  That  was  the  end  for  both 
of  us." 

"Are  you  not  afraid  you  may  meet  him  again?" 

"Yes,"  she  said.  "Horribly  afraid.  That  is 
why  I  am  taking  refuge  in  this  matrimonial  ark. 
Oh,  Paula !  Paula !  the  looks,  the  jeers,  the  hints  of 
those  women,  and  my  heart  a  living  torture,  my 
pride  so  shamed !  I  don't  know  how  I  lived  through 
it " 

She  shivered  as  with  sudden  cold,  and  her  hands 
fell. 

"If  it  would  end — if  I  could  kill  out  the  feeling! 
Sometimes  I  seem  to  forget — and  it  is  quite  gone, 
and  I  can  smile  and  talk  and  dance,  and  then  like  a 
knife-thrust  it  is  back — the  pain  and  humiliation,  the 


A   JILT'S   JOURNAL.  247 

passion  and  bitterness  and  despair.  In  a  single 
day,  a  single  hour,  Paula,  love  teaches  us  what 
neither  books  nor  any  other  experience  can  teach. 
We  live  or  die,  I  think,  in  that  birth-struggle  of  the 
heart." 

"It  sounds  so  pathetic,"  I  said. 

"It  sounds — what  it  is.  Don't  wish  for  the  ex- 
perience, Paula.  Be  thankful  if  you  can  evade  it. 
I  have  told  you  the  truth,  partly  for  my  own  ease, 
partly  to  warn  you.  If  you  choose  to  hold  out  a 
hand  you  may  claim  a  love  and  a  lover  worthy  the 
name;  worth  all  that  rank  and  riches  can  bestow. 
But  I  know  you  won't  hold  it  out.  Perhaps  you 
don't  care." 

"I  care  so  much,"  I  said,  "that  I  am  sorry  I  can- 
not care  more.  Do  you  understand  such  a  feel- 
ing?" 

"No,"  she  said,  "I  do  not,  Paula.  But  we  are  of 
different  temperaments.  Love  comes  to  no  two  na- 
tures in  exactly  the  same  way.  You  are  so  vivid, 
so  full  of  force  and  energy,  so  eager  to  know.  I 
— it  would  have  been  quite  enough  had  he  loved 
me." 

"But  he  did;  you  said  so." 

"I  think  he  experimented  with  me  for  his  own 
purpose.  He  must  have  known  what  it  would  be, 
but  I  could  not.  When  he  spoke  of  his  suffer- 
ings  " 

For  the  first  time  her  voice  broke.  At  my  quick 
glance  the  tears  gathered  and  began  to  fall.  I  drew 
her  into  my  arms  with  a  new  passion  of  tenderness 
and  something  of  wrath  against  the  cruelty  that  had 
left  such  cruel  hurt  behind. 

"Why  do  you  cry  for  him?"  I  said.  "I  don't 
believe  men  suffer." 


848  A   JILT'S   JOUKKAL. 

"Yes,  Paula,  they  do.  Don't  run  away  with  that 
theory." 

She  controlled  herself  by  an  effort. 

"He  did  suffer.  It  was  a  surprise  to  himself.  He 
thought  I  would  have  let  it  all  go  on — played  with 
fire  as — as  so  many  others  had  done.  And  I  would 
not.  I  would  not  go  back.  I  was  inexorable.  I 
sent  him  from  me,  and  now  it  is  all  over.  For 
when  I  marry " 

She  rose  abruptly  and  wrung  her  hands  in  a 
desperate,  helpless  way.  "If  that  does  not  save  me 
nothing  will,"  she  said.  "If  life  isn't  full  to  the  brim 
its  emptiness  terrifies  me.  I  must  throw  myself  into 
something — politics,  charities,  philanthropy — some- 
thing that  will  take  up  my  days  and  hold  my 
thoughts.  To  live  as  I  live  is  impossible,  and  Lyn- 
mouth  will  not  be  an  exacting  or  troublesome  hus- 
band. I  must  go  on  with  it,  Paula — I  must." 

"It  won't  be  easy,"  I  said. 

"I  know.  Don't  suppose  I  haven't  looked  at  it 
every  way.  It's  no  use  being  sentimental.  I  marry 
knowing  why  I  marry,  and  what  I  am  marrying  for. 
It's  less  of  a  degradation  than  it  might  be.  I  make 
no  pretence  of  feelings.  And  he  doesn't  ask  it.  I 
like  him  well  enough  to  make  him  a  good  wife. 
Everyone  at  home  wishes  it.  It  will  be  of  inesti- 
mable advantage  to  my  father  and — that  nursery 
cherub.  Besides,  Lynmouth  has  honored  me  by  an 
assurance  that  he  knows  I'm  'the  sort  of  girl  that 
will  run  straight  and  not  kick  over  the  traces.'  All 
the  self-indulgence  I  shall  allow  myself  is  my  friend- 
ship for  you,  Paula,  and  an  avoidance  of  the  Rivi- 
era. .  Not  much  —  and  yet  a  great  deal.  We  were 
never  demonstrative — you  and  I — but  I  cannot  al- 
low our  lives  to  drift  apart." 


A   JILT'S   JOURNAL.  849 

"I  hope  they  never  will,"  I  said.  I  rose  also,  and 
with  clasped  hands  we  stood  by  the  open  window, 
the  moonlight  on  our  faces,  and  disquiet  in  our 
hearts. 

"How  soon  things  changed,"  I  said  involuntarily. 
"We  are  the  same  Paula  and  the  same  Lesley  who 
wanted  to  know  the  truth  and  the  purpose  of  Life — 
and  now " 

"My  fruit  of  knowledge,"  she  said,  "is  bitter,  and 
hateful,  and  poisonous.  Yours?" 

"I  have  not  plucked  it  yet,"  I  said.  "I  am  only 
looking  at  the  boughs." 


CHAPTER  VI. 

I  SLEPT  badly  that  night,  haunted  by  the  pale  mis- 
ery of  Lesley's  face. 

Besides,  I  should  not  have  been  Paula  had  I  not 
relived  that  story,  and  pictured  that  Russian  count, 
and  seen  a  Byronic  hero,  passionate  and  unprin- 
cipled, breaking-  hearts  without  compunction  till 
suddenly  Fate  had  turned  on  him  and  left  him  suf- 
fering and  alone.  It  seemed  strange  that  such  a  ro- 
mance should  have  come  to  her,  and  passed  me  by. 
I — who  wanted  to  play  heroine  to  my  own  life- 
story,  and  only  succeeded  in  finding  unsuitable  back- 
grounds. What  was  the  use  of  Adam  Herivale  lov- 
ing me?  I  cared  for  him  a  little,  but  Lesley  had 
given  me  an  insight  into  love  the  passion,  and  I 
felt  that  nothing  less  would  satisfy  my  heart. 

"One  draught  of  the  true  wine  of  life,"  had  said 
my  oracle,  "is  worth  a,  thousand  sips  of  inferior 
brands.  Better  go  thirsty  forever  after,  than  be 
content  with  a  poorer  vintage." 

"The  true  wine  of  life."  Would  it  ever  be  offered 
to  me? 

"All  the  best  love  stories  are  unhappy  ones,"  I 
thought.  "It  seems  as  if  Fate  meant  them  for  a 
tragic  ending!  I  have  a  horror  of  suffering.  I 
feel  I  should  want  to  run  away  from  anything  that 
threatened  discomfort  or  pain.  Oh,  to  think  that 
Lesley  has  learned  the  great  secret  first,  and  I  never 
suspected  it!" 

250 


A   JILT'S   JOUKNAL.  251 

I  tossed  from  side  to  side.  I  turned  my  pillow, 
and  tried  to  shut  my  eyes  to  that  radiant  moonlight, 
but  for  long  sleep  refused  to  come  to  me. 

I  had  made  the  acquaintance  of  a  new  Lesley  and 
was  bound  to  follow  it  through  many  mazes  of  con- 
jecture. Yet  the  picture  was  evasive  and  incom- 
plete, and  I  felt  an  ever-growing  dissatisfaction  with 
it.  But  strangest  of  all  was  the  thought  that  she 
had  learnt  to  suffer  and  yet  conceal  the  fact  of  suf- 
fering. Even  I,  who  knew  her  so  well,  had  never 
suspected  it.  Now  her  forthcoming  marriage  stood 
out  in  a  totally  new  light.  It  struck  a  note  of 
tragedy,  and  on  the  bridal  white  a  shadow  seemed  to 
rest. 

"I  wonder  why  she  persists  in  going  through 
with  it,"  I  said  to  myself.  "How  can  she  expect  to 
be  anything  but  miserable  ?  To  sacrifice  herself  for 
sake  of  a  memory !" 

The  strangeness  and  the  folly  of  it  angered  me; 

though  when  Lesley  had  spoken,  I  felt  only  pity. 
****** 

I  slept  at  last  and  woke  to  a  dull  morning  with  a 
sky  that  threatened  rain.  My  head  ached,  and  a 
sense  of  depression  weighed  on  my  spirits.  The 
memory  of  Lesley's  confession  came  back  afresh 
and  left  me  half  anxious  and  half  eager  to  meet 
her. 

Merrieless  brought  me  a  message  from  her.     She 
also  had  a  headache ;  would  I  excuse  her  from  com 
ing  down  to  breakfast? 

I  dressed  and  went  to  her.  The  blinds  were 
drawn,  but  even  in  the  dim  light  I  saw  how  pale  and 
tired  she  looked. 

"We  sat  up  too  late,"  I  said,  as  I  kissed  her.  Her 
forehead  was  burning,  and  her  eyes  spoke  pain.  I 


252  A   JILT'S   JOURNAL. 

made  a  cool  lotion  and  steeped  a  handkerchief  in  it 
and  laid  it  on  her  head.  "Don't  speak,"  I  said. 
"Just  lie  quietly  there  till  the  pain  goes.  I  will  see 
you  are  not  disturbed." 

She  pressed  my  hand. 

"You  always  understand,  Paula,"  she  said.  "A 
few  hours'  quiet — that  will  do  me  good.  Please 
don't  be  anxious.  I'll  be  all  right  by  noon." 

I  left  her  to  the  darkness  and  the  quiet  and  went 
down  to  the  professor.  He  had  taken  a  great  fancy 
to  Lesley,  and  was  distressed  to  hear  she  was  ill. 
"Perhaps  you  rode  too  far  yesterday,"  he  said. 

The  remembrance  of  the  ride  brought  back  my 
American  friend.  I  told  the  professor  about  him 
and  the  book.  • 

"You  might  have  asked  him  to  call,"  he  said.  "I 
should  have  been  pleased  to  make  his  acquaintance." 

"He  is  staying  here  for  another  day.  Perhaps  he 
will  call,"  I  said.  "He  is  not  at  all  a  bashful  young 
man,  and  evidently  bent  on  making  the  most  of  his 
opportunities.  He  did  the  castle,  the  village  and 
the  Beacon  Cove  yesterday.  I  wonder  what  his 
plans  are  for  to-day?" 

"Ask  him  to  lunch,"  said  the  professor,  "if  you 
see  him — or  you  might  send  a  note  down  to  the 
inn." 

"I  have  to  go  to  the  village,"  I  said.  "I  will 
leave  a  note  if  you  write  it." 

He  did  write  it,  and  I  started  off  as  soon  as  break- 
fast was  over. 

I  had  little  fear  of  not  seeing  Dr.  Quain.  It  was 
difficult  to  miss  anybody  in  Scarffe.  I  saw  him  in 
the  porch  of  the  inn,  smoking  a  cigarette  and  read- 
ing a  newspaper.  He  recognized  me  with  pleased 
surprise. 


A   JILT'S   JOUENAL.  253 

"I  reckon  you'll  supply  the  want  of  sunshine,"  he 
said  as  we  "shook."  "It's  good  to  see  you  on  such 
a  morning." 

"I've  brought  you  a  note  from  the  professor,"  I 
said,  handing  it.  "I  was  coming  down  to  one  of 
the  shops,  so  I  said  I'd  be  postman." 

"You're  doing  me  a  great  honor,"  he  said,  "and 
this  is  most  kind  of  Professor  Trent.  I  assure  you 
I  appreciate  it  ver-ry  much.  I  was  just  wondering 
what  I  should  do  with  myself.  I  thought  of  walk- 
ing to  that  old  church  on  the  hill — Quinton  Lacy  is 
the  name,  I  believe.  Is  it  worth  seeing?" 

"I  hardly  think  so.  The  walk  is  pretty  and  the 
village  rather  quaint,  but  the  church  is  an  old, 
dreary  building.  They  don't  use  it  for  service  any 
longer.  The  churchyard  is  very  old.  Do  you  care 
about  churchyards?" 

"Well,  not  ver-ry  much,"  he  said,  smiling.  "Kind 
of  melancholy,  aren't  they  ?  Perhaps  I  might  walk 
with  you  while  you're  shopping,  and  we  could  have 
another  interesting  talk  —  unless,  of  course,  you'd 
rather  not." 

"I  have  no  objection.  Would  you  care  to  go  to 
the  ruins  again  ?" 

"Certainly  I  should — care.  More  especially  with 
such  a  charming  guide." 

I  ignored  the  compliment,  and  after  calling  at  the 
shop  took  him  all  round  the  outer  walk  which  sur- 
rounded the  castle,  and  which  the  public  were  gra- 
ciously permitted  to  use  free  of  charge.  I  gave  him 
a  great  deal  of  information  which  I  had  received 
from  the  professor,  and  for  which  he  seemed  grate- 
ful. Then  we  went  up  to  the  ruins,  and  I  took  him 
to  "my"  tower,  as  I  called  it.  From  there  we  had  a 
wonderful  view.  Suddenly,  however,  the  threat- 


254  A   JILT'S   JOURNAL. 

ened  rain  poured  down,  and  we  had  to  beat  a 
retreat. 

''I  guess  I  was  right  to  come  prepared,"  he  re- 
marked. "If  you  stand  under  this  corner  of  the 
wall,  Miss  Trent,  I'll  put  up  my  collapsible." 

"Collapsible?"  I  gazed  about,  and  at  his  hands. 
"What  is  that?" 

He  smiled  effulgently,  and  produced  from  the 
pocket  of  his  coat  a  curious-looking  article  which 
resembled  an  apoplectic  ruler. 

This  he  began  to  unscrew  and  unfold,  and  fit  and 
fix,  until,  to  my  amazement,  it  represented  an  um- 
brella. 

"Ingenious,  ain't  it?"  he  said,  as  the  thing  wid- 
ened out  like  an  inflated  mushroom.  "I  guess  you 
haven't  seen  anything  like  that  before?" 

"No,  I  haven't,"  I  said.  "And  now  that  I  have 
been  privileged,  may  I  ask  what's  the  advantage? 
You  could  be  drenched  to  the  skin  before  you  got 
the  thing  fixed  into  shape,  and  even  then  it's  a 
clumsy-looking  article !" 

"Well,  it  does  take  some  time  to  fix,"  he  allowed. 
"But  then  it's  easy  stowed  away;  goes  into  your 
pocket." 

"It  would  look  a  great  deal  better  in  your  hand,  if 
it  were  presentable." 

"Don't  seem  to  please  you — somehow." 

I  laughed.  "What  funny  people  you  are !  I  was 
thinking  of  some  of  the  things  you  told  me  yester- 
day." 

"I  wish  you'd  let  me  tell  you  something  to- 
day." 

"What  is  it?" 

"That  you're  just  about  the  nicest,  prettiest, 
sweetest  little  girl  I've  ever  met.  But  I  guess  you've 


A   JILT'S   JOURNAL.  255 

heard  that  so  often  that  it  makes  no  difference  for 
an  American  cousin  to  say  it." 

"Well,"  I  said,  "I  haven't  considered  you  in  the 
light  of  a  cousin — yet." 

"Couldn't  you  begin?" 

"I  could ;  but  what  would  be  the  use  ?" 

"Seems  friendly  like.  And  we  did  get  along  fine 
yesterday.  You  remember  our  talk?" 

"Of  course  I  do.  We  said  a  great  deal  to  very 
little  purpose,  and  you  quoted  a  great  deal  of  poetry, 
mostly  American." 

"You  said  you  liked  it." 

"So  I  did — yesterday." 

"What  does  that  mean?" 

"It  means  that  I  don't  bring  the  same  thoughts  or 
the  same  feelings  to  bear  upon  this  marvellous  'in- 
vention,' as  I  brought  to  accommodating  my  horse's 
pace  to  yours." 

"Never  mind  the  invention,  so  long  as  it  keeps  the 
wet  off  your  pretty  hair." 

"Is  that  an  insinuation  that  the  color  might  'run'?" 

"I  see  you're  up  for  teasing.  But  I  don't  mind. 
I  guess  this  is  pretty  comfortable." 

"How  long  does  the  average  American  girl  take 
to  accommodate  herself  to  the  average  English- 
man?" I  asked. 

"Well,  just  about  as  long  as  it  took  me  to  get 
friendly  with  you.  She's  not  artificial  or  conven- 
tional." 

"I  see.  And  is  it  my  fault  or  yours  that  we  can't 
be  conventional?" 

"A  little  of  both,  I  take  it.  You  find  something 
ver-ry  interesting  in  the  study  of  that  foot  of  yours, 
Miss  Trent  ?  I  haven't  seen  the  color  of  your  eyes 
since  the  rain  came  on." 


256  A1  JILT'S   JOUENAL. 

"You  seem  to  associate  my  coloring  with  a  ten- 
dency to  be  spoilt  by  wet,"  I  said.  "My  eyes  are 
all  right — I  only  use  my  tongue  for  talking." 

"That's  so.  And  you  can  make  amazing  good 
use  of  it.  I  guess  you're  not  so  friendly  as  you 
were  yesterday.  Have  I  been  so  unfortunate  as  to 
offend?" 

"I'm  never  offended  when  a  man  talks  sensibly. 
But  I  hate  compliments  and  personal  remarks." 

"I  am  ver-ry  sorry.  But  it's  hard  to  keep  to  quite 
impersonal  things  when — there's  a  person  who 
makes  herself  more  important  than — the  things." 

"What  a  lucid  remark !" 

"A  mighty  ordinary,  commonplace  one !     I " 

"You  are  the  person,  and  the  Patent  Collapsible 
is  the  thing!  And  the  rain's  over,  and  we  might  be 
getting  home.  I've  left  my  friend  ill  in  bed,  and  it 
seems  very  unkind  to  be  so  long  away." 

"The  pretty,  disdainful  young  lady  who  was  with 
you  yesterday?" 

"She's  not  disdainful!" 

"Certainly  not,  if  you  say  so.  But  she  looked  a 
fairly  good  imitation  of  the — adjective.  See  here, 
Miss  Trent,  we'll  be  quarrelling  presently.  S'pose 
we  start  the  conversation  afresh.  You  gave  me  a 
good  time  yesterday.  What's  wrong  with  to-day?" 

"Nothing — except  the  weather." 

"Does  it  always  affect  you  like  this  ?" 

"Like  what?" 

"You  know  very  well — sort  of  putting  out  porcu- 
pine quills  at  every  remark  I  make." 

I  felt  indignant. 

"When  anything  is  an  effort  it  is  sure  to  be  a 
failure,"  I  said.  "Your  efforts  have  spoilt  my  appre- 
ciation." 


ft   JILT'S   JOURNAL.  257 

"That's  very  hard.  Because  I  can't  drag  my 
mind  away  from  you — and  to  talk  about  anything 
else  is  an  effort.  When  I  got  up  this  morning  I  felt 
immense.  I  was  so  happy.  And  now  for  the  last 
five  minutes  I've  been  just  as  miserable." 

"Your  people  always  use  big  words  to  express 
little  things,"  I  said  cruelly.  "And  you're  no  ex- 
ception, Dr.  Quain." 

I  slipped  out  from  the  shade  of  the  collapsible 
into  a  brief  glint  of  sunshine.  "Do  put  down  that 
odious  thing  and  be  sensible,"  I  said. 

He  opened  his  lips  as  if  to  make  a  remark,  but  he 
didn't.  Only  hauled  down,  and  unscrewed,  and  un- 
fixed the  remarkable  invention  that  I  had  failed  to 
appreciate. 

I  watched  the  process.  But  for  a  certain  look  in 
his  face  I  should  have  laughed  riotously. 

I  was  learning  to  know  that  look — now. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

I  HAD  never  seen  the  professor  so  amused,  and 
apparently  so  interested,  as  he  was  by  the  conversa- 
tion and  varied  information  of  Dr.  Quain. 

It  appeared  to  me  that  my  new  friend  could  talk 
on  any  subject.  If  he  was  not  very  well  informed 
on  it,  he  limited  himself  to  questions,  put  as  asser- 
tions, and  learned  enough  by  this  means  to  take  one 
side  of  an  argument. 

Lesley,  who  had  come  down  to  luncheon,  ap- 
peared as  interested  as  the  professor,  though  we 
agreed  afterward  that  the  intricacies  of  dental  sur- 
gery left  us  fervently  thankful  that  Nature  was 
likely  to  make  us  both  independent  of  such  assist- 
ance for  a  good  many  years  to  come. 

After  luncheon  we  discussed  plans  for  the  after- 
noon. The  rain  had  cleared,  the  sun  was  shining 
brilliantly.  Dr.  Quain  suggested  a  drive,  and  forth- 
with betook  himself  to  the  inn  to  see  what  vehicle 
was  possible  for  the  purpose. 

He  returned  in  half  an  hour's  time,  driving  a  non- 
descript machine,  with  a  weedy-looking  animal  be- 
tween the  shafts,  whose  only  recommendation  was 
that  it  could  "go." 

And  go  it  did ! 

Up  hill  and  down  dale,  through  roads  and  lanes, 
past  fields  where  the  blue  of  cornflower  and  scarlet 
of  poppy  made  but  one  flash  of  color ;  under  shade 
of  elm  and  birch  and  firs  and  pines ;  taking  the  hard, 

268 


A   JILTS   JOURNAL. 

old  Roman  road  at  a  harder  trot;  giving  an  occa- 
sional shy  at  a  stray  sheep,  a  fluttering  bird  or  a 
heap  of  stones  on  the  roadway;  jolting  and  jogging 
in  a  fashion  that  made  comfort  impossible,  and  con- 
versation a  gasp,  until  finally  our  charioteer  drew 
rein  on  the  crest  of  a  hill  and  with  a  cheerful  smile 
remarked  that  we'd  done  eight  miles,  and  he  guessed 
that  wasn't  so  bad  for  the  "hire  system." 

"Oh,  do  stop  for  five  minutes!  You've  shaken 
all  the  breath  out  of  me,"  I  implored. 

"Why,  didn't  you  like  it?"  he  asked  with  com- 
punction. "If  I'd  got  you  behind  an  American 
spider  I  wonder  what  you'd  have  said  then?" 

"Said — I'd  have  shrieked!  If  there's  one  insect 
I  detest  in  this  world  of  insects  it's  a  spider." 

"I  didn't  mean  an  insect.  It's  a  vehicle.  And  it 
can  cover  ground,  you  bet.  A  fast  trotter  in  front 
of  it  don't  let  you  trouble  much  more  about  scenery 
than  a  passing  comet." 

"Then  I'm  thankful  you  haven't  one  here,"  I  said 
ungratefully.  "No  wonder  you  people  have  not  the 
art  of  enjoyment.  You  seem  to  do  everything  at  a 
rush,  from  viewing  an  imperial  city  to  taking  a 
country  drive.  You  can't  expect  to  hear  Nature's 
stories  at  full  gallop." 

He  glanced  at  the  smoking  steed,  and  then  at  the 
wide-lying  prospect,  so  pastoral  and  peaceful  and 
typically  English.  Cottages,  harvest-fields,  mead- 
ows gold  and  green;  above — a  sky  whose  radiance 
was  dazzling;  around — that  circle  of  the  everlasting 
hills;  and  yet  again,  sweeping  to  the  far  horizon 
line,  the  blue  of  the  waveless  sea. 

"It  is  pretty,"  he  allowed.  "But  if  you  only  saw 
the  Adirondacks." 

"I  can  appreciate  English  scenery  without  the  aid 


260  A   JILT'S   JOURNAL. 

of  comparison,"  I  said,  being  in  a  mood  as  aggres- 
sive as  breathlessness  and  aching  bones  would  ex- 
cuse. "As  for  the  Adirondacks " 

I  paused,  then  raised  a  directing  finger.  "Do  you 
see  those  white  cliffs  out  seaward?  Well,  they  pro- 
tect one  of  England's  loveliest  isles  —  a  fairyland 
that  shelters  the  home  of  one  of  the  greatest,  noblest 
and  most  beloved  of  reigning  sovereigns.*  There 
again" — with  another  sweep  of  the  hand,  "is  a  bit 
of  English  history — a  church  and  castle  that  date 
from  A.  D.  690 — around  which  the  strength  of  our 
throne  and  the  records  of  our  faith  are  linked.  Isn't 
that  better  than  your  Adirondacks  ?" 

( I  am  ashamed  to  say  I  knew  nothing  of  what  the 
Adirondacks  were,  but  the  name  prejudiced  me.  I 
could  never  dissociate  it  from  tin  tacks  and  hard-' 
ware!) 

"It's  certainly  ver-ry  interesting,"  he  observed. 
"But  monarchy  not  being  a  constitutional  thing 
with  us,  we  naturally  couldn't  have  any  palaces 
lying  about.  But — as  far  as  scenery  goes,  well,  I've 
not  come  across  any  this  side  to  beat  ours." 

"Why  should  you  want  it  beaten  ?"  I  inquired  in- 
nocently. "That  sounds  as  if  it  were  a  carpet  kind 
of  scenery  that  you  take  up  and  lay  down  when  the 
fancy  takes  you !" 

"I  guess  that's  meant  to  be  smart,  Miss  Trent," 
he  said  good-naturedly.  "But  you  must  know  very 
well,  judging  what  a  lot  you've  read,  that  our  Amer- 
ican Continent  is  a  most  astonishing  place." 

"We  will  leave  it  at  that,"  interposed  Lesley, 
quietly.  "There  is  an  old  proverb,  Dr.  Quain,  that 
says,  'Comparisons  are  odious.' ' 

*This  wa's  written,  alas !  while  yet  the  beloved  sovereign  was 
England's  reigning  Queen. 


A   JILT'S   JOURNAL.  261 

"You're  right,  Miss  Heath,  they  are.  It's  my 
fault  for  introducing  a  bit  of  our  national  boastful- 
ness  into  the  subject.  We  have  a  cheerful  irrever- 
ence for  all  things  connected  with  a  crowned  head, 
or  an  imperial  government,  or  a  patented  nobility. 
I  know  I  ought  to  have  said,  'Ladies — this  is  a  most 
charming  bit  of  English  scenery,  and  ver-ry  typical.' 
Now,  shall  we  get  along?" 

I  laughed.  "Oh,  you're  incorrigible!  I  had  a 
great  deal  more  to  point  out." 

"What's  that  high,  white  building  to  the  right 
among  the  trees,  with  the  flag  floating  around  ?" 

"That,"  I  said,  "is  Quinton  Court,  the  seat  of 
Lord  St.  Quinton.  He  has  the  finest  property 
about  here." 

"Oh,  where  that  old  church  is — I've  not  seen  it 
yet." 

"We  might  drive  round  there  and  drop  in  at  the 
Court  for  tea,"  suggested  Lesley. 

"Will  you?"  he  asked  eagerly.  "I'd  love  to  see 
that  Court.  I  heard  the  interior  was  magnificent 
enough  for  royalty." 

"Oh,  royalty  has  very  simple  tastes,"  I  said.  "It 
is  far  too  sensible  to  live  up  to  'gilded  splendor.' 
When  you're  to  the  'manner  born,'  Dr.  Quain,  your 
own  consciousness  of  power  and  prerogative  doesn't 
require  external  advertisement." 

He  made  no  answer,  but  sent  the  "goer"  on  once 
more. 

"You're  very  hard  on  him,"  whispered  Lesley,  as 
we  descended  the  hill  jerkily.  "WhatJs  he  done? 
The  usual  thing  ?" 

"Does  it  look  like  that?" 

"Very  much  like  that.  An  unusually  quick  case, 
but  then  his  nation  never  do  things  at  our  rate  of 


A   JILT'S   JOURNAL. 

speed.  I  believe  the  next  generation  will  get 
through  love,  courtship  and  marriage  by  electric- 
ity." 

We  were  hurled  down  into  the  valley  again,  and  I 
told  him  breathlessly  the  road  to  take.  As  we  en- 
tered the  village  I  saw  one  of  the  Court  carriages 
coming  toward  us.  In  it  were  Lady  St.  Quinton 
and  Lady  Brancepeth. 

It  stopped;  and  Dr.  Quain  drew  his  animal  up 
almost  on  its  haunches. 

"Come  in  and  have  tea,"  said  Lady  St.  Quinton. 
"I've  something  to  tell  you,  Paula." 

"We  were  just  going  to  call,"  I  answered. 

"That's  right.     We're  on  our  way  home  now." 

I  saw  her  glance  inquiringly  at  my  new  friend,  so 
I  introduced  him  without  his  initials  or  degrees.  I 
knew  they  would  come  out  before  the  acquaintance 
dated  ten  minutes. 

"We'll  just  drive  round  to  the  old  church,  and 
then  follow  you,"  I  said. 

"I  never  knew  the  old  church  was  anything  but 
an  eyesore,"  said  Lady  Brancepeth.  "I  see  you  still 
keep  up  your  habit  of  labeling  trifles  'Important.'  ' 

"The  importance  rests  with  the  way  you  regard 
them,"  I  said. 

"And  who  shares  in  the  regard?"  she  said,  with 
one  of  her  insolent  smiles. 

"Please  drive  on,"  I  said  to  Dr.  Quain,  and  a 
touch  of  the  whip  took  our  Pegasus  out  of  earshot 
and  eyesight. 


There  were  some  half  dozen  people  in  the  hall 
when  we  arrived.  Some  of  them  Lesley  and  I  had 
met  in  town. 


A   JILTS    JOUBJffAl.  363 

Two  sisters — the  Misses  Featherleigh — who  were 
renowned  for  "skirt  dancine."  A  certain  Dickey 
Wren,  who  was  an  excellent  amateur  actor,  an 
equally  excellent  musician,  and  lived  on  an  epigram- 
matic reputation  and — debts.  Who  paid  the  debts 
or  allowed  him  credit  was  a  mystery,  but  his  useful- 
ness in  the  art  of  providing  country  house  parties 
with  amusement  helped  him  along  the  road  of  life  as 
well  as  any  profession  would  have  done.  Lord 
"Bobby"  was  here  again,  and  greeted  me  with 
effusion.  My  rejected  admirer  —  Tommy  Yelver- 
ton — was  also  to  the  fore,  looking  more  dissipated 
and  vacuous  than  when  in  town,  and  apparently 
ready  for  "the  third  time  of  asking." 

We  sat  down  and  had  tea,  and  Lady  St.  Quinton 
made  herself  very  charming  to  the  American,  per- 
haps scenting  the  proverbial  "dollar"  as  recommen- 
dation, or  else  desirous  of  knowing  how  and  where 
her  "charge"  had  picked  him  up.  That  same  charge 
was  inwardly  thanking  Fate  for  a  season  in  town 
that  had  robbed  her  tongue  of  gaucherie  and  her 
nerves  of  fear. 

She  was  capable  now  of  entertaining  Lord 
Brancepeth  and  "Tommy  Dodd"  at  one  and  the 
same  moment,  and  neither  seemed  to  wish  them- 
selves in  better  company. 

Lesley  was  dignified  and  somewhat  silent.  But 
the  aura  of  forthcoming  marriage  surrounded  her. 
She  was  an  object  of  respectful  interest.  The 
Lorely  lounged  on  one  of  the  divans,  and  kept 
Dickey,  or  "Dickey-bird,"  as  she  called  him,  in  con- 
stant attendance  upon  her. 

After  a  time  I  discovered  why  Lady  St.  Quinton 
had  wished  to  see  me.  She  was  getting  up  an  en- 
tertainment for  the  organ  fund,  and  it  had  been 


264  A   JILT'S   JOUKNAL. 

arranged  to  take  the  form  of  "out-door"  theatricals. 
The  balcony  scene  from  "Romeo  and  Juliet"  was 
to  be  given  on  a  real  balcony,  with  real  moonlight. 
''Wasn't  that  a  novel  and  delightful  idea?"  she 
asked. 

''Guess  you'd  better  square  the  Metereological 
Office  before  you  fix  the  date,"  interposed  Dr. 
Quain.  "Or  arrange  two  ways,  so  that  you  can 
have  your  performance  indoors  or  out.  A  thunder- 
storm would  make  pretty  short  work  of  Juliet's  love 
speeches." 

"Oh,  it  will  be  full  moon.  And  the  August  moon 
is  a  dependable  one,"  said  Lady  St.  Quinton. 

"I  think  it  is  a  lovely  idea,"  I  said  rapturously. 
"Who's  going  to  act  ?" 

"Oh,  the  principals  are  to  be  professionals,  and 
Dickey  (Mr.  Wren,  you  know)  is  to  stage  manage, 
and  play  a  minor  part.  Then  we  shall  have  a  scene 
or  two  from  'As  You  Like  It,'  and  all  the  seats  are 
to  be  arranged  in  a  semi-circle  among  the  trees." 

"It's  a  smart  notion,"  said  the  American,  "and 
ought  to  catch  on  here.  When  did  you  say  the  en- 
tertainment was  to  come  off,  Lady  St.  Quinton  ?" 

"To-morrow  week.  If  you  are  staying  in  this 
neighborhood,  doctor,  I  should  be  pleased " 

"Madame,"  he  interposed,  with  a  polite  bow,  "I 
shall  consider  it  a  duty  I  owe  to  myself  and  my 
country  to  stay  in  this  neighborhood  and  to  be  a 
witness  of  this  ver-ry  interesting — performance.  I 
guess  I  can  scatter  around  the  country  and  see  some 
more  of  your  celebrated  antiquities,  and  be  back 
again  in  time  to  hear  Romeo  swear  fidelity  to  Juliet. 
I've  had  the  pleasure  of  visiting  your  Shakespeare's 
birthplace,  and  I  shall  look  forward  to  hearing  his 
masterpiece  with  double  enthusiasm." 


A   JILT'S   JOURNAL.  265 

"Very  well,"  said  Lady  St.  Quinton,  "we'll  leave 
it — conditional." 

"Put  it  so,  if  you  please,  and  I  will  record  the 
date  in  my  notebook,  and  keep  an  eye  on  the 
weather." 

"You  seem  distrustful  of  our  weather,"  I  ob- 
served. "I  suppose  you've  not  found  your  patent 
defence  very  useful  ?" 

"I've  found  it  less  satisfactory  since — yesterday," 
he  said,  meaningly. 

"If  it  were  your  own  patent  ?"  I  said. 

"No  such  luck,  I  assure  you." 

"Well,  if  it  were,  I'd  like  to  buy  the  exclusive 
right " 

"And  bring  it  out  here?"  he  asked  eagerly. 

"Exclusive  right,"  I  went  on  remorselessly.  "So 
that  it  might  never  again  intrude  upon  anyone's 
sense  of  inartistic  fitness." 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

THE  talk  was  all  of  the  theatricals.  They  seemed 
to  rival  the  record  "bags"  and  record  sportsmen. 
Lady  St.  Quinton  wished  Lesley  and  myself  to 
take  part  in  them,  but  I  refused.  Lesley,  however, 
did  consent  to  play  a  small  part  in  "As  You  Like 
It,"  and  to  stay  on  the  extra  week  in  order  to  re- 
hearse. 

"It  will  be  something  to  do,"  she  said  to  me  as  we 
drove  home.  "And  I  want  to  keep  away  from  town 
as  long  as  I  possibly  can." 

Dr.  Quain  detained  me  a  moment  as  I  wished  him 
good-by. 

"I  want  to  ask  one  favor  of  you,"  he  said.  "They 
tell  me  it's  worth  climbing  up  that  hill  to  the  right 
of  the  castle  to  see  the  view  at  sunset.  Would  you 
be  so  kind  as  to  walk  up  there  with  me  ?" 

"Walk  up?"  I  repeated.  "Do  you  think  I'm  a 
fly?  Climb  up,  you  mean.  You've  no  idea  how 
steep  it  is  ?" 

"Is  it?  I  thought  it  was  possible.  Wouldn't 
you  try?" 

I  hesitated.  I  knew  perfectly  well  why  he 
wanted  me  to  go  up  to  that  hill  summit.  It  would 
be  kinder  and  wiser  to  refuse.  But 

That  overmastering  desire  to  know,  to  read  the 
workings  of  another  mind,  to  trace  the  current  of 
thought  in  another  conquered  heart  swooped  down 
on  Paula  in  the  form  of  an  irresistible  temptation. 

266 


A   JILT'S   JOURNAL.  267 

She  played  with  it  by  virtue  of  the  "cat  and  mouse" 
element  in  her  sex. 

"I  don't  know  whether  Miss  Heath  would  care 
about  it.  She  is  not  very  strong." 

"Miss  Heath !  I  wasn't  asking  her  to  exert  her- 
self." 

"Oh! — you  expect  me  to  leave  her,  and  mount 
that  hill  for  sake  of  seeing  a  sunset  with — you?" 

"It  does  seem  a  bit  presumptuous,  I  suppose.  Yet 
that's  what  I  had  in  my  mind.  You're  a  bit  of  a 
thought-reader,  I  see." 

I  laughed  softly.  "You  certainly  are  the  very 
strangest  man  I've  ever  met.  Are  you  aware  how 
long  our  acquaintance  has  lasted  ?" 

"Seems  as  if  I'd  known  you  years.  But,  of 
course,  I  remember  driving  up  here  on  that  coach 
only  yesterday.  I've  had  a  pretty  wide  and  compre- 
hensive experience,  but  I  do  allow  this  leaves  a  want 
of  purpose  in  all  the  others.  Won't  you  come  up  the 
hill  and  see  the  sunset  ?" 

I  glanced  up  at  the  steep  peak  and  tried  to  picture 
Paula  in  that  elevated  position,  studying  her  favor- 
ite "philosophy  of  cardiac  anatomy." 

Laughter  bubbled  up  from  an  inexhaustible 
spring,  and  sentiment  flew  heavenward. 

"I'll  come,"  I  said,  "in  half  an  hour's  time." 

I  turned  away  lest  he  should  discover  that  I  was 
only  mirthful — not  impressed. 

"Who  is  ever  going  to  touch  this  hea'rt  of  mine?" 
I  asked  myself. 

Lesley  was  lying  down,  tired  with  the  jolting  of 
that  dreadful  drive.  I  told  her  I  was  going  out  to 
see  the  sunset.  She  lifted  languid  eyes. 

"Out  again — alone?" 

"Not  alone."  I  said.     "I  am  taking  a  walk  into  a 


268  A   JILT'S   JOURNAL. 

lion's  den.  I'll  relate  the  experience  when  I  re- 
turn." 

"Oh,  Paula!  Paula!" 

"Now,  Lesley,"  I  said  calmly,  "from  first  to  last 
you  have  been  a  witness  of  the  career  of  this— ex- 
perience. Am  I  to  blame?  Can  I  say  'I  won't 
talk' — 'I  won't  jest' — 'I  won't  laugh,  dear  Mr.  Man, 
for  fear  you  should  fall  in  love  with  me  as  soon  as  I 
am  introduced  to  you." 

"I  didn't  think  Americans  were  so  susceptible." 

"I  suppose  they  conduct  their  courtships  on  the 
same  lines  as  their  other  inventions,"  I  said,  going 
over  to  the  glass  to  see  if  my  hat  was  straight. 

I  looked  at  myself  as  steadily  as  uncontrollable 
laughter  would  allow. 

"For  the  life  of  me,  Lesley,"  I  said,  "I  can't  tell 
what  makes  men  care  about  me !" 

"Perhaps  that's  the  best  reason  you  can  give  for 
their  caring.  As  a  rule,  a  man  falls  in  love  with  a 
woman  because  she  is  just  the  one  person  in  the 
world  he  has  no  business  to  love." 

"That  rule  scarcely  applies  to  me." 

"No — not  yet.  But  your  day  has  to  come.  A 
present — indifference  shields  you  most  effectually." 

I  wheeled  suddenly  round.  "Are  you  very  tired, 
dear  ?  Do  you  mind  my  leaving  you  ?  It's  so  hard 
to  remember  I  ought  to  be  playing  hostess." 

"If  you  want  to  be  kind,"  she  said,  "you'll  treat 
me  exactly  as  you've  always  done.  For  the  present 
I'd  be  glad  of  an  hour  or  two  of  rest.  I  seem  to 
tire  so  quickly  now." 

I  kissed  her  silently  and  went  away.  The  mem- 
ory of  that  story  she  had  told  went  with  me,  and  I 
left  my  mirth  behind. 


A   JILT'S   JOURNAL.  269 

The  light  was  red  above  the  gray,  clustering  roofs 
of  Scarffe  as  I  mounted  the  sharp  ascent.  A  rough 
foot-track  led  me  round  to  where  the  slope  grew 
abrupt.  Here  I  found  Dr.  Ouain  awaiting  me. 

"I  reckon  it's  steeper  than  I  thought,"  he  said. 
"Let  me  help  you." 

By  aid  of  his  stick,  and  occasionally  of  his  hand, 
I  clambered  up. 

The  height  overlooked  not  only  the  castle  and  the 
village,  but  two  distinct  counties.  The  dome  of  the 
sky  was  like  a  tent,  whose  blue,  silken  sides  clasped 
the  dusky  circle  of  the  hills.  Feathery  clouds  of 
rose  and  gold  floated  over  this  arch  of  blue,  and  all 
the  lovely  width  of  burnished  water  shone  like  a 
mirror  of  gold  as  the  sun  began  to  sink. 

Breathless  and  silent  I  stood,  and  he  was  silent, 
too. 

So  near,  so  mystic,  looked  that  sapphire  wonder 
of  the  sky,  so  near  those  rosy,  drifting  clouds,  it 
seemed  as  if  heaven  stooped  to  kiss  the  earth  "good- 
by"  ere  taking  back  its  gift  of  light. 

And  still  the  change  went  on,  and  cloud  and  color 
took  or  lost  a  splendor  as  the  last  gold  flashed  from 
the  crown  of  day.  Then  a  wonderful  light,  clear 
and  purple  as  an  amethyst,  stole  up  from  behind  the 
greater  glory,  and  the  rosy  clouds  paled. 

The  circle  of  those  hills  which  shut  in  the  old,  old 
town  and  the  older  ruins  from  the  noise  and  con- 
fusion of  the  modern  world,  showed  once  more  gray 
and  green  against  the  fading  light. 

Water,  cliffs,  bare  harvest-fields  and  gold-starred 
meadows  lost  their  momentary  vividness,  and 
seemed  to  glide  away  into  a  hazy  distance.  The 
brilliant  tints  changed  to  twilight's  dusk.  A  cold 
wind  blew  over  the  hills,  and  chilled  me. 


270  A   JILT'S   JOUKNAL. 

"You  shivered,"  he  said  at  last,  breaking  the 
silence.  "I  hope  you're  not  cold." 

The  intrusion  of  mere  physical  inconvenience  on 
such  a  moment  jarred  on  me. 

I  walked  on,  and  made  no  answer. 

After  a  few  yards,  I  stopped  abruptly  with  an  ex- 
clamation of  disgust. 

"What  is  it?"  he  asked. 

"The  usual  vulgar  tourist  has  been  adorning  even 
this  place  with  his  insignificant  initials!"  I  ex- 
claimed, pointing  to  the  letters  cut  into  the  turf  at 
our  feet.  "One  would  think  a  scene  and  spot  like 
this  would  eliminate  this  caddish  craze.  But  it 
hasn't.  There  are  men,  I  believe,  who  would  risk 
their  lives  to  climb  a  mountain,  or  take  a  balloon 
to  the  highest  pyramid  only  for  the  glory  of  cutting 
their  names  on  ice  or  granite !" 

"I'm  afraid  you  have  not  much  toleration  for 
.weakness,"  he  said.  "But,  you  see,  Paula,  you're 
yery  young." 

"Don't. call  me  Paula,"  I  said.  "I'm  not  an 
American  girl !" 

"I  wish  you'd  let  me  make  you  into  one," 
he  said.  "I  do  feel  as  if  I'd  give  all  the  world  for 
you.  They  say  love  at  first  sight  is  the  best  love, 
and  I  reckon  that's  what  it  was  with  me.  Just 
took  it  bad,  and  can't  seem  to  get  over  it  any- 
way." 

The  old,  old  chill  swept  over  me  at  those  words. 
How  much  did  he  mean?  how  much  did  he  care? 
And  why  should  he  care  so  quickly?  What  did  he 
know  of  Paula — the  real  Paula? 

"Have  I  offended  you?"  he  asked  humbly.  "I 
was  looking  at  your  face  when  that  beautiful  sunset 
was  going  on"  (he  spoke  of  it  as  of  a  pyrotechnic 


A   JILT'S   JOURNAL.  271 

display  got  up  for  his  benefit)  "and  it  seemed  to  me 
so  sweet  and  gentle  and  holy." 

(No  Paula  could  stand  that.)  I  flashed  out: 
"What  you  saw  in  my  face  wasn't  me  at  all ;  only 
the  reflection  of  that  wonderful  light.  What  you — 
care  for  in  me,  isn't  me  at  all,  either;  only  the  reflec- 
tion of  your  own  feelings.  How  can  you  possibly 
fancy  you  are  in  love  with  a  girl  to  whom  accident 
introduced  you,  and  of  whose  life  and  heart  and 
nature  you  are  absolutely  ignorant?" 

"I  can  only  answer  that  by  saying  your  face  came 
to  me  suddenly  as  the  one  face  capable  of  rousing 
such  a  feeling.  I  can't  get  away  from  it,  or  from 
you.  But  then  it's  no  use  trying  to  explain  love. 
You  know  it  when  you  feel  it,  and  it  seems  to  lift 
you  right  straight  into  Paradise  without  any  need 
of  wings !  Only  to  catch  sight  of  you,  Paula,  seems 
to  make  my  heart  just  like  a  summer's  day;  I  feel 
poetry  all  through  me  and  would  like  to  shake  hands 
with  all  the  world.  I  can't  explain  why,  but  it's  so. 
As  one  of  our  sweetest  poets  says,  'No  other  love 
finds  room  within  my  heart.'  And  again  .  .  . 

"  'For  love's  sake  I  can  put  e'en  art  away, 
Or  anything  which  stands  'twixt  me  and  you."1 

-  would  have  given  anything  to  take  him  seri- 
ously, but  that  unfortunate  lapse  into  poetry 
brought  not  only  the  Boffins  of  Dickens's  Mutual 
Friend  into  my  head,  but  also  what  Captain  Cuttle 
calls  "the  application  of  it."  And  the  idea  of  "art" 
as  associated  with  the  sacrifice  of  American  dentis- 
try overthrew  the  whole  situation.  I  began  to 
laugh  hysterically.  The  more  I  tried  to  restrain 
myself  the  worse  I  became. 

He  looked  very  angry,  and  I  attempted  an 
apology. 


27B  A   JILT'S   JOURNAL. 

"It's — it's — it's  the  poetry,"  I  gasped.  "Poetry 
always  upsets  me — it  did  at  school." 

"School!"  he  said  wrathfully.  "I  reckon  a  girl 
who  can  talk  like  you  has  left  school  a  long  way 
behind  her — long  enough  to  know  better  than  make 
sport  of  a  man's  feelings." 

"I'm  not  making  sport  of  your  feelings,"  I  said. 
"I'm  very  sorry  if  you  take  it  so  seriously,  but  for 
goodness'  sake  don't  drop  into  verse  about  it." 

"I  shan't  drop  into  anything,"  he  said;  "I  s'pose 
it's  no  good.  If  you  had  cared,  ever  such  a  little 
bit " 

I  went  through  my  newly  acquired  formula  of 
proffered  friendship  and  regard,  but  whether  he 
found  laughter  still  lurked  behind,  or  the  wound 
was  deeper  than  I  imagined,  his  wrath  only  in- 
creased. He  stood  driving  holes  into  the  ground 
with  his  stick,  and  kept  his  eyes  sullenly  averted. 

"I  am  very  sorry,"  I  repeated.  "But,  if  you 
come  to  think  of  it,  a  girl  can't  make  up  her  mind 
to  love,  marry  and  obey  for  the  rest  of  her  natural 
life  a  man  she's  only  met  twice.  At  least  I'm  not 
the  sort  of  girl.  I  should  want  to  know  a  great 
deal  about  the — the  person.  His  mind,  and  his 
nature,  and"  (as  an  after  thought)  "his  temper. 
Why  think,  even  in  this  case,"  I  went  on  cheerfully, 
"I  might  be  a  shrew,  a  vixen,  a " 

"You're  none  of  these,"  he  said  drily.  And  he 
lifted  his  head  and  looked  into  my  eyes  at  last. 
"But  I'll  tell  you  what  you've  a  fair  chance  of  be- 
coming if  you'd  care  to  hear — and  that's  a  co- 
quette." 


CHAPTER  IX. 

I  SAT  alone  in  my  room,  and  meditated  on  the 
many  different  ways  men  propose. 

I  had  come  home  in  a  mood  of  indignation,  for 
my  American  friend  had  maintained  a  hurt  and 
sulky  silence,  and  I  thought  it  was  only  due  to  my- 
self to  resent  such  a  speech  as  that  last  one  on  the 
hill  heights. 

Coquette,  indeed!  Because  I  had  not  fallen  in 
love  to  order;  jumped  into  his  arms  as  he  opened 
them!  No.  On  this  occasion  my  conscience  ab- 
solved me.  It  was  true  I  had  met  him  once  by  ap- 
pointment, but  surely  there  was  no  great  harm  in 
going  to  look  at  a  sunset.  It  could  scarcely  be 
looked  upon  as  direct  encouragement  of  a  proposal. 

"The  truth  is,"  I  had  said  to  Lesley  while  we  dis- 
cussed the  subject,  during  the  labor  of  hair-brush- 
ing, "the  truth  is,  Lesley,  that  men  are  so  full  of 
vanity  and  self-importance  that  they  think  they  have 
only  to  ask  and  to  have!  They  are  not  over  and 
above  tender  to  our  feelings,  but  don't  they  cry  out 
if  their  own  are  hurt!" 

"You  seem  to  have  acquired  a  pretty  successful 
knack  of  hurting  them,"  she  said. 

"I  can't  help  it,"  I  said  crossly,  for  I  had  never 
before  failed  in  keeping  a  possible  friendliness  in 
view  after  previous  rejection.  "I  like  men  just  as  I 
like  certain  books,  certain  amusements,  but  I  really 
begin  to  think  things  are  much  nicer  than  people. 

273 


274  A   JILT'S   JOURNAL. 

There's  not  one  in  a  hundred  I  can  like,  much  less 
love." 

"Well,  I  don't  blame  you  for  not  falling  in  love 
with  Dr.  Quain.  He  wasn't  the  sort  of  man  to  suit 
your  tastes  or  your  character.  When  you  do  marry, 
Paula,  it  will  be  a  dangerous  experiment.  It's  the 
inward  side  of  everything  you  look  at." 

When  she  went  to  bed  I  took  out  Friendship,  for 
which  I  had  always  had  a  sneaking  kindness,  and 
read  of  loris  and  Etoile,  and  wondered  if  it  was 
really  possible  that  a  woman  could  love  like  that. 
Love — to  the  sacrifice  of  life,  and  art,  and  happi- 
ness. Love  even  when  what  she  loved  was  un- 
worthy. 

I  read  this  sentence : 

"Once  —  was  it  yesterday,  or  was  it  a  score  of 
years  away? — she  had  flown  to  her  work  with  such 
joy  in  it  that  she  never  felt  physical  fatigue,  or  soli- 
tude, or  any  flight  of  time.  Now — she  only  listened 
for  one  step.  When  she  heard  it  not,  the  long,  pale, 
weary  day  seemed  cold  as  death,  empty  as  a  rifled 
grave !" 

I  closed  the  book. 

"Empty  as  a  rifled  grave,"  I  repeated.  "Does  it 
lie  in  any  man's  power  to  make  my  life  like  that? 
Full  to  overflowing,  or  empty  as  a  rifled  grave.  Do 
these  great,  wonderful  passions  exist,  or  are  they 
invented  to  mislead  us?" 

A  dip  into  my  own  "treasury  of  knowledge"  as- 
sured me  that  "love  as  an  illusionist  was  without 
rival.  It  could  make  you  forget  everything  except 
— love."  But  as  if  to  counteract  the  force  of  that 
assertion  another  paragraph  stated,  "Love  may  be 
so  completely  disillusioned  that  the  faithlessness  of 
the  person  you  love  cannot  even  hurt  you.  It  only 


A  JILT'S   JOURNAL.  275 

confirms  your  judgment;  it  does  not  affect  your 
feelings.  Your  reasoning  powers  can  lift  you  to 
heights  that  his  can  never  touch.  From  that  high 
altitude  passion  looks  a  poor  and  ill-controlled 
thing.  You  pity,  you  forgive,  or  you  condemn,  but 
rest  assured  that  you  can  never  give  back  your  love, 
your  faith,  your  real  self  as  once  you  gave  them. 
For  you  for  evermore  Love's  face  is  veiled,  and  his 
voice  powerless  to  enchant." 

These  were  my  mother's  words.  Like  a  talisman 
I  kept  that  book  forever  with  me.  I  had  discovered 
two  copies  in  the  professor's  bookcase  and  had  taken 
one  for  my  own  use. 

Rightly  or  wrongly  it  seemed  to  me  that  all  the 
wisdom  of  a  woman's  heart  lived  in  those  pages. 
Whether  glad  or  sorrowful,  hopeful  or  perplexed,  I 
could  always  find  something  in  them  to  suit  the  need 
of  my  mood.  Further  on,  my  eyes  lighted  on  a  page 
of  Fenella's  own  history.  "Does  this  sound  fool- 
ish?" she  asked.  "All  sentiment  is  foolish.  Yet  a 
woman  can  live  on  it.  But  a  man  can't.  Never 
expect  it,  and  never  blame  him  for  what  his  nature 
has  made  impossible.  For  him  life  means  strong 
meat,  strong  wine,  strong  passions.  All  else  is 
mawkish  and  poor  and  beneath  his  attention.  Of 
course  I  except— curates." 

With  a  laugh  I  put  away  the  book,  saying  to 
myself,  "I  wonder  what  she  would  have  said  to 
Mark  Christopher  Quain?" 

****!«»* 

At  breakfast  next  morning  the  professor  an- 
nounced he  had  changed  his  mind,  and  would  not 
lunch  at  the  Court.  We  argued  and  pleaded,  but 
all  in  vain.  He  had  a  paper  to  write  for  some  forth- 
coming meeting  and  he  would  not  be  persuaded, 


276  A   JILT'S   JOURNAL. 

I  kept  indoors  until  it  was  time  to  leave.  Lady 
St.  Quinton  sent  a  carriage  for  us  as  usual.  I 
hoped  that  my  American  had  taken  himself  off,  and 
that  there  would  be  no  fear  of  meeting  him  again 
until  he  returned  for  the  theatricals.  Surely  by  then 
he  would  have  recognized  his  folly,  or  mine,  and 
taken  a  dose  of  common  sense  to  cure  himself. 

Lesley  looked  very  lovely.  She  was  all  in  white ; 
the  only  bit  of  color  about  her  was  a  cluster  of 
Marechal  Niel  roses  with  their  green  leaves  fast- 
ened in  the  lace  at  her  throat.  The  day  was  radiant, 
and  my  spirits  equally  so.  I  almost  forgot  Lesley's 
hidden  tragedy.  I  certainly  did  forget  the  re- 
proaches heaped  upon  my  head  by  rejected  lovers. 
I  felt  that  youth  and  life,  and  sunshine  and  liberty 
were  blessed  things,  and  never  a  riddle  among  them 
that  morning. 

Toddling  through  a  field  that  skirted  the  road  to 
Quinton  Lacy,  I  spied  a  figure.  Bent,  yet  alert, 
quaintly  garbed,  and  flourishing  a  stick  at  a  recreant 
sheep  that  seemed  to  have  followed  a  prayer-book 
formula  and  "done  the  thing  it  ought  not  to  do." 

"That's  old  Gregory  Blox,"  I  said  to  Lesley. 
"Shall  we  speak  to  him?  He's  such  a  character." 

"Yes — do,"  she  said,  having  heard  from  me  of 
Merrieless'  love  affair,  and  the  Lothario  reputation 
of  the  ancient  man. 

So  we  drew  up  and  I  beckoned  to  Gregory,  and 
forthwith  he  straightened  his  waistcoat,  and  gave 
his  old  straw  hat  a  jaunty  curve,  and  hobbled  up  to 
the  victoria. 

"Well,  Mr.  Blox,  how  are  you?"  I  said.  "I've 
been  wondering  what  had  become  of  you.  I  began 
to  think  you  must  be  courting  for  the — how  many 
times  is  it  ?" 


A   JILT'S   JOUENAL.  1877 

"As  many  times  as  there  were  maids  to  listen," 
he  said,  chuckling.  "But  'tain't  for  me  no  longer, 
miss,  which  you're  kindly  welcome,  and  the  new 
London  lady  too,  and  a  fine,  handsome  pair  you  do 
make,  pardon  the  liberty  of  expressing." 

"I'm  very  pleased  to  make  your  acquaintance, 
Mr.  Blox,"  said  Lesley.  "I've  heard  a  great  deal 
about  you." 

"Is  that  so  now,  young  lady?  Well — well,  they 
do  say  London  gets  knowledge  of  every  thought  and 
deed  that's  done,  but  I  hadn't  fancied  bein'  so  hon- 
ored as  to  have  my  small  fortunes  discussed  in  a 
varied  metropolies.  Such  an  old  man  as  I  be  too. 
Heh — heh — heh!  You'll  be  for  makin'  me  that 
vain,  honorable  missies,  that  a  sight  o'  looking- 
glasses  won't  be  altering  my  faculties !" 

It  was  long  since  I  had  heard  Lesley  laugh,  but 
old  Blox,  with  a  belief  in  a  London  reputation  and 
a  looking-glass,  would  have  made  the  veriest  cynic 
smile. 

"And  have  you  been  quite  well  ?"  I  asked  hastily. 

"I  might  make  mention  o'  a  complaint  or  two  but 
for  fear  o'  offending  such  delicate  female  ears,"  he 
remarked.  "A  touch  o'  rheumatics,  and  a  hint  o' 
colic  maybe,  is  allowable ;  not  but  the  good  lady  at 
the  farm  is  kind  *eno'  in  the  way  o'  peppermint  for 
the  stomick,  and  linniment  for  the  knees.  Aye,  I 
believe  a'  wouldn't  ha'  wintered  through  but  for 
her." 

"You  mean  Mrs.  Herivale?" 

"Aye,  'tis  the  mistress.  The  Lord's  blessing  on 
her!  I'm  thinkin'  He'll  need  her  to  grace  His 
courts  afore  He  sends  a  messenger  my  way.  There 
not  being  so  special  a  need  o'  sinners  as  o'  saints  in 
them  same  courts  o'  glory.  Maybe  'tis  because  I've 


278  A   JILTS   JOURNAL. 

secreted  mirth  so  long,  that  the  serious  side  o'  life 
has  'scaped  me !  I  do  begin  a  psalm  tune  now  and 
then  when  the  ale's  warm,  and  the  fire  roarin'  high, 
but  the  power  o'  melody  in  the  voice  isn't  what  it 
was  in  years  agone,  not  apparingly  to  other  folk's 
thinkin',  and  the  complyments  they  will  be  payin', 
makes  o'  my  inside  as  'twas  naught  but  blushes. 
And  that's  a  discomfortin'  feelin'  for  a  man,  be  he 
old  or  young." 

"I  think  we  must  say  good-by  now,  Gregory,"  I 
said  hurriedly.  JT11  be  round  at  the  farm  soon  to 
see  Mrs.  Herivale.  Will  you  tell  her  so,  with  my 
love?" 

Oh,  the  delicious  leer  of  his  wicked  old  eye ! 

"Love — is  it? — and  I  to  be  honored  by  the  car- 
ryin'  o't !  'Tis  a  terrible  pleasurable  situation,  miss, 
and  one  that  makes  a  chance  o'  obstinacy  in  a  four- 
footed  creature  seem  like  a  happy  providence  for 
him  as  had  the  fault  o'  strayin'  laid  on  his  shoulders, 

and  took  the  field  way  yonder." 

****** 

When  we  had  laughed  ourselves  tired,  Lesley  and 
I  agreed  that  English  natural  humor  had  been  much 
neglected  by  those  truth-seekers  who  have  courted 
fame  in  the  regions  of  fiction.  Then  she  turned  to 
me,  as  if  by  some  impulse  that  memory  had  inspired. 
"By-the-bye,  Paula,  do  you  still  keep  that  journal? 
You  used  to  send  me  extracts  from  it,  you  re- 
member?" 

"Yes,"  I  said.  "But  you  didn't  seem  to  appre- 
ciate them,  so  I  gave  it  up." 

I  left  her  to  decide  what  I  had  given  up  —  the 
journal,  or  the  transmission  of  its  extracts.  How 
could  I  tell  her  of  my  nightly  tasks;  of  the  secret 
pleasure  those  scribbled  pages  afforded ;  of  her  own 


A   JILT'S   JOURNAL.  279 

love-story  transcribed;  of  the  speculations  it  had 
aroused?  No.  A  girl's  confidence  is  only  confi- 
dence while  she  is  ignorant  of  the  full  meaning  of 
life.  Once  she  learns  its  possibilities,  or  its  tempta- 
tions, its  excitements  and  its  dangers,  she  feels  that 
her  own  nature  becomes  secretive  by  force  of  emo- 
tions never  hitherto  experienced. 

Girlhood  stands  like  a  sentinel  awaiting  Nature's 
call.  The  heart  forbids  the  betrayal  of  a  password, 
but  the  citadel  is  less  eager  of  defence  than  conscious 
of  weakness. 

I  looked  at  my  school  friend's  lovely  face,  and 
remembered  how  long  I  had  been  left  in  ignorance 
of  the  great  secret  of  her  life. 

"Lesley,"  I  said  abruptly,  "you  are  a  great  dis- 
appointment. There  was  nothing  I  looked  forward 
to  so  eagerly  as  the  hearing  of  your  engagement,  or 
Claire's.  I  thought  it  would  be  just  the  most  in- 
teresting  " 

"Paula!"  she  cried  warningly.  "Who  are  you 
copying  now  ?" 

I  laughed.  "I  ought  to  have  said  Ver-ry.'  But 
really,  Lesley,  think  of  our  talks,  of  our  expecta- 
tions, our  promises — where  are  they  all?" 

"Where  the  school  days  are,  I  suppose,  and  the 
girls  who  laughed,  and  chattered,  and  promised.  I 
think,  Paula,  our  life  then  was  only  an  expenditure 
of  mind-energy.  We  were  so  ignorant  and  we 
thought  ourselves  so  wise.  We  believed  that  to 
wish  and  to  have  were  identical.  I  wish  education 
fitted  us  for  life,  instead  of  unfitting  life  for — 
us." 

"You  have  grown  sadly  wise,  Lesley.  My  'spurts' 
are  only  second  hand.  I  take  my  lessons  from  the 
philosophy  of  a  life  that  has  lived  and  suffered. 


280  A   JILT'S   JOURNAL. 

But  I  can't  make  it  spontaneous  or  effective  as  you 
do — the  philosophy,  I  mean." 

"So  much  the  better  for  you,  Paula.  But  you 
are  far  too  interested  and  too  observant  to  take 
either  life  or  its  philosophy  at  second  hand.  You 
have  made  a  prologue  interesting.  What  will  the 
drama  itself  be?" 

"Perhaps  there  will  never  be  a  drama.  Only  a 
long  stage  wait,  and  then  a  quick  curtain." 

"Better  that  than  a  prolonged  tragedy." 

"Lesley,  I  haven't  forgotten  what  you  said — that 
night.  But  I  thought  you  would  prefer  I  did  not 
speak  of  it." 

She  touched  my  hand.  "I  do  prefer  it,  Paula. 
I  want  to  get  rid  of  sentiment.  It  is  an  enemy  to 
life — woman's  life.  That  life  is  hard  enough,  God 
knows.  We  enter  on  it  with  everything  prescribed 
by  a  code  of  moral  laws  and  social  obligations.  We 
must  do  the  same  things  that  other  women  have 
done,  however  different  our  natures  or  inclinations. 
Oh,  Paula,  the  drilling  I  had !  Even  love,  if  so  deli- 
cate a  subject  is  touched  upon,  comes  in  form  of  a 
platitude  —  a  thing  hedged  and  ditched  by  moral 
maxims  and  prudent  precepts;  a  sexless,  limbless 
creation,  of  as  much  use  to  teach  us  life  as  our 
broken  dolls  are  to  teach  us  anatomy.  Oh,  it  is 
hateful — hateful!  And  in  this  fashion  we  are  set 
going — fetters  clanking  at  every  step!  All  the  tri- 
umph and  hope  of  youth  forbidden  or  despoiled. 
Is  it  any  wonder  the  iron  enters  the  soul  at  last,  and 
a  woman  becomes  a  secret  sinner  instead  of  a 
healthy  rebel?" 

The  crimson  on  her  cheek,  the  flash  of  her  soft 
eyes  transformed  her  into  something  of  the  spirited, 
fearless  girl  I  had  known. 


A   JILT'S   JOURNAL.  281 

My  heart  warmed.  "Why  not  become  a  rebel?" 
I  said  eagerly.  "Oh,  Lesley,  it's  not  too  late! 
Give  up  this  idea — this  sacrifice.  I  hate  to  think  of 
your  marriage  now.  I  dreamt  last  night  of  a  field 
of  waving  grass,  and  out  of  it  a  snake  crawled,  its 
crest  raised  to  strike!  And  you  stood  there  alone, 
and  looked  at  it,  and  I  shrieked  to  you  to  move  out 
of  its  way,  and  you  only  smiled.  The  horror  of  it 
woke  me.  There  seemed  such  a  little  thing  wanted 
to  save  you,  and  yet " 

"I  wouldn't  be  saved.  That's  just  it,  Paula.  I 
think  I  would  rather  face  the  fangs  and  have  done 
with  it." 

She  turned  her  eyes  on  me,  and  I  saw  something 
in  their  depths  I  could  not  reach,  or  even  compre- 
hend; that  strange  pathos  which  is  like  the  sup- 
pressed pain  of  all  humanity. 

I  could  not  bear  that  look,  nor,  in  all  my  varied 
vocabulary  of  ready  speech,  could  I  find  a  single 
word  to  fit  the  situation,  or  my  feelings  respect- 
ing it. 

So  I  held  my  peace,  and  in  unbroken  silence  we 
reached  the  Court. 


CHAPTER  X. 

"WE  are  going  to  have  a  hen-luncheon,"  said 
Lady  St.  Quinton,  as  she  came  to  meet  us.  "The 
men  are  all  off  to  the  coverts,  except  Dickey,  and  he 
doesn't  count.  He's  in  the  veranda  now,  talking 
stage  traditions  with  Lorely  and  the  American  ac- 
tress who  is  going  to  do  Juliet  for  us.  She  came 
down  last  night,  and  everyone  is  raving  about  her.*' 

"Why — an  American  Juliet  ?"  I  asked. 

"Oh,  my  dear,  all  the  Shakespearean  actresses  are 
resting,  as  the  Era  puts  it — off  for  a  holiday,  or  a 
tour,  I  suppose.  Lorely  had  met  Mrs.  Desallion — 
or  was  it  Dickey?" 

"Desallion!"  I  cried.  "You  don't  mean  to  say 
Mrs.  Desallion  is  here?" 

"Why  not  ?  You  surely  don't  know  her — except 
by  repute?" 

"No,  of  course  not,  but  it  seems  so  odd.  Only 
the  other  day  her  name  was  brought  up  and  I  felt 
so  interested  in  her,  and  to  think  she  should  be  here 
—herself." 

"I've  often  noticed,"  observed  Lady  St.  Quinton, 
"that  to  talk  of  a  person  is  a  sure  sign  you're  to 
meet  at  some  near  date.  Psychic  force  or  magnet- 
ism, I  suppose.  Very  odd.  Well,  it  must  be  the 
same  Mrs.  Desallion,  because  she's  an  American, 
and  only  just  come  over  for  a  London  engagement 
in  the  autumn."  She  looked  keenly  at  me.  "What 
did  you  hear  ?"  she  asked. 

282 


A   JILT'S   JOURNAL.  283 

"Only  that  she  was  very  beautiful,  and" — I  hesi- 
tated a  moment — "that  her  hair  was  exactly  like  my 
own." 

Lady  St.  Quinton  studied  my  remarkable  coils 
for  a  moment.  "Not  exactly,"  she  said.  "Hers  is 
more  vivid.  The  women  say  it's  dyed.  I  wouldn't 
be  sure.  But  now  that  you've  spoken,  Paula,  I  see. 
what  it  was  that  puzzled  me  about  her.  She  is  like 
you.  For  instance,  with  your  colored  hair  one  gen- 
erally expects  to  see  blue  eyes.  Yours  are  hazel, 
you  know,  and  so  are  Mrs.  Desallion's,  and  she  has 
the  same  arched  brows,  that  make  one  think  of  pen- 
cils. But  there  the  resemblance  ends.  She  is  taller, 
and  her  figure  is  simply  perfect.  She  is  as  lithe  as  a 
gymnast.  The  only  thing  that  spoils  her  is  that 
American  drawl.  It  sounds  affected;  but  she  says 
the  cleverest  things.  However,  you'll  see  her  pres- 
ently." 

I  felt  strangely  curious  about  this  woman,  though 
I  could  give  no  reason  for  it.  We  went  into  the 
broad,  shady  veranda,  and  there,  stretched  on  a  long 
wicker  lounge,  her  dazzling  head  against  a  heap  of 
blue  and  gold  cushions,  was  the  most  beautiful  and 
striking-looking  figure  I  had  ever  seen. 

I  am  writing  this  description  hours  after  I  have 
seen  her,  and  yet  she  is  so  vividly  before  me  that  I 
could  draw  every  shade  of  color  and  line  of  grace 
that  represent  her. 

The  red-gold  of  her  hair  had  more  of  red  and  less* 
of  gold  than  mine,  but,  like  mine,  it  had  the  loose, 
feathery  wil fulness  that  always  defied  arrangement, 
that  shook  and  shimmered  in  the  sunlight  as  if  each 
?url  and  tendril  were  a  protest  against  restraint. 
Her  attitude  and  expression,  and  the  whole  charac- 
ter of  her  beauty  was  an  embodied  rebellion.  Vivid, 


284  A   JILT'S   JOURNAL. 

wilful,  heartless  —  those  were  the  adjectives  with 
which  I  qualified  the  enthusiasm  her  personal 
charms  awoke. 

When  Lady  St.  Quinton  introduced  Lesley  and 
myself  she  scarcely  deigned  to  notice  us.  Had  it 
not  been  for  a  certain  curious  stillness  that  came  to 
her  face  as  her  eyes  met  mine,  I  could  have  fancied 
she  had  not  even  heard  my  name. 

But  the  stillness  passed  so  rapidly,  and  the 
drooped  lids  were  so  supercilious  in  their  indiffer- 
ence, that  I  was  inclined  to  attribute  the  change  to 
my  imagination. 

She  had  the  strangest  fascination  for  me,  and  yet 
I  felt  I  had  never  shown  to  worse  advantage.  My 
glib  tongue  was  silent;  my  brain  refused  to  exert 
itself.  The  half-veiled  sneers  and  taunts,  of  Lady 
Brancepeth  aroused  no  answering  quips  from  me. 
I  was  like  one  in  a  dream,  conscious  only  of  this 
delicate  vision,  with  the  strange  eyes  and  the  lan- 
guid, mocking  voice. 

Before  the  wisest,  cleverest,  most  celebrated  man 
I  could  have  borne  myself  composedly,  have  spoken 
without  effort,  but  this  woman  seemed  to  turn  me 
into  a  dumb,  awkward  fool.  If  she  glanced  at  me  I 
flushed;  if  she  asked  me  a  question  I  could  only 
summon  a  brief  "Yes"  or  "No"  by  way  of  answer. 

I  saw  Lesley  look  at  me  in  surprise,  and  the 
Lorely  with  contemptuous  amusement,  but  I  could 
not  gather  my  wits  about  me,  and  was  thankful  to 
keep  in  the  background. 

When  she  rose  from  that  cushioned  lounge  and 
swept  into  the  dining-room,  I  recognized  what  my 
chaperon  had  meant  by  saying  she  was  as  lithe  as  an 
athlete.  She  seemed  to  move  as  I  had  seen  no  other 
woman  move.  It  was  not  only  the  grace  and  sup- 


rA   JILT'S   JOURNAL.  285 

pleness  of  her  figure,  but  the  wonderful  distinction 
of  her  carriage  that  made  all  the  other  women  look 
awkward,  or  graceless,  or  vulgar.  Even  the  Lorely 
was  at  a  disadvantage  for  once. 

No  empress  could  have  carried  herself  with 
greater  dignity,  or  left  a  stronger  impression  of 
natural  sovereignty  than  did  this  actress.  She  had 
no  stage  tricks,  she  never  once  talked  "shop,"  she 
never  sounded  a  single  echo  of  her  name  and  fame, 
but  it  was  impossible  not  to  feel  that  in  some  way, 
at  some  time,  she  had  ruled  and  swayed  the  hearts 
of  a  multitude,  even  as  now  she  swayed  and  fasci- 
nated individual  units. 

"You  seem  to  have  lost  your  wits,  Paula,"  Lady 
Brancepeth  had  remarked.  "I  suppose  the  air  of 
Sleepy  Hollow  has  counteracted  the  benefits  of  the 
Row.  Do  you  still  find  the  ruins  exhilarating,  and 
Colin — resourceful  ?" 

Several  eyes  turned  to  my  crimson  cheeks. 

"Pray,  who  is  Colin  ?"  asked  Lady  St.  Quinton. 

"Quite  a  pastoral,"  murmured  the  eldest  Miss 
Featherleigh,  who  had  poetic  tastes,  and  eyebrows 
that  were  a  perpetual  query.  "Ruins — and  Arcadia, 
and  a  swain  whose  name  matches  them." 

"Colin,"  went  on  my  tormentor,  "is  a  handsome 
farmer,  who  has  the  advantages  of  education,  the 
lineage  of  centuries,  and  the  virtues  of  the  country 
bumpkin !" 

"Oh,  you  mean  young  Herivale!"  said  Lady  St. 
Quinton.  "I  think  'country  bumpkin'  is  hardly  a 
fair  description." 

"Shepherd — perhaps  is  better,"  said  the  Lorely. 
"I  think  I  have  seen  him  with  a  crook  in  his  hand, 
and  a  stray  lamb  in  attendance." 

"What  sort  of  lamb  ?"  drawled  the  cold,  clear  ac- 


A   JILT'S   JOURNAL. 

cents  of  Mrs.  Desallion.  "Young,  I  suppose,  and — 
innocent  ?" 

"Innocent  as  natural  wool,"  said  the  Lorely, 
"with  country  prejudices  undisturbed,  and  a  ten- 
dency to  bleat  affection." 

"I  cannot  understand  how  a  pastoral  idyl  can  pos- 
sess a  single  element  of  content,"  observed  Mrs. 
Desallion,  languidly. 

"Because  the  bucolic  mind  asks  only  to  enjoy 
its  possessions,  and  never  questions  the  capacity 
of  another  mind  to  interfere  with  such  enjoy- 
ment." 

"Content  is  a  great  blessing,"  said  Lady  St.  Quin- 
ton,  in  the  copy-book-precept  fashion  she  often 
adopted  when  girls  were  present.  "I  think  it  is 
such  a  comfort  that  the  agricultural  classes  have  it, 
for  really  they  could  make  life  very  unpleasant  for 
us  if  they  chose." 

"I  think  they  do  make  it  unpleasant,"  said  the 
Lorely.  "At  least  Bobby's  tenants  do.  Perhaps 
Bobby  isn't  popular — I  know  he  hates  interview- 
ing the  steward,  or  being  worried  about  roofs  and 
pig-styes.  Do  your  tenants  ask  for  a  new  pig-stye 
every  year,  Pussy?" 

"Perhaps  your  people  are  only  asking  for  the 
same  one  that  has  never  been  given." 

"Oh,  perhaps  that's  it.  I  know  Bobby  gets  into 
a  dreadful  rage,  and  his  language  is — well,  not  of 
the  three  divisions." 

"What  are  the  three  divisions?"  inquired  Laura 
Featherl  eigh. 

"Don't  you  know?  Some  clever  person  in  the 
papers  wrote  that  the  English-spoken  language 
might  be  divided  into  three  variations  on  the  origi- 
nal theme.  Upper  class — slang;  middle  class — 


'A   JILT'S   JOUKNAL.  287 

slovenly;  lower  class — sanguinary.  But  I  think 
Bobby  has  discovered  a  fourth." 

"I  never  heard  that  before.  But  do  we  talk 
slang?" 

"A  pretty  good  imitation.  What  do  you  say, 
Dickey?" 

"It  depends  on  what  class  you  consider  you  be- 
long to!" 

Lady  Brancepeth  laughed.  "Is  there  a  doubt  in 
your  mind?" 

"My  mind,"  he  answered,  "is  nothing  but  doubt. 
I  once  discovered  a  mistake  in  the  Peerage,  and 
since  then  I've  begun  to  mistrust  the  Thirty-nine 
Articles,  the  Divine  Right  of  Kings,  and  Mr.  Cham- 
berlain's orchid." 

"Never  mind  the  orchid.  They  imitate  flowers  so 
well  now  that  it's  wise  to  adopt  a  scentless  one.  I 
ask  again,  are  we  slangy,  as  this  man  said?" 

"We  are  all  things  to  all  men — on  occasions," 
said  Dickey.  "A  newspaper  stated  the  other  day 

that  the  Prince  of  Wales  had  said  'd n'  to  a 

clergyman." 

"Was  the  cleric  lecturing  his  future  sovereign?" 

"Oh,  no ;  only  asked  why  he  read  a  sporting  paper 
on  Sunday." 

"Wherefore  'd n'  for  answer  ?  I  should  have 

said,  'For  the  same  reason  that  you  preach.' ' 

"But  it  couldn't  have  been  for  the  same 
reason !" 

"Why  not  ?  The  paper  and  the  sermon  come  out 
on  the  same  day." 

"Dickey,  you  are  becoming  so  deliciously  subtle 
that  you'll  soon  have  to  travel  with  an  interpreter," 
said  Lady  St.  Ouinton. 

"You  always  do  flatter  me  dreadfully.     I  wish 


288  A   JILT'S   JOURNAL. 

you  would  say  something  that  would  make  me  sorry 
you  had  said  it." 

"You  are  very — profound,"  drawled  Mrs.  Desal- 
lion.  "It  is  almost  sad  to  think  how  much  of  your 
existence  must  have  been  wasted  in  educating  ordi- 
nary minds  to  your  standard  of  comprehension." 

"Now,"  he  exclaimed,  "I  am  sorry,  but  for  you, 
not  for  myself.  Your  speech  is  an  infringement  of 
copyright !" 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"It's  not  original.  I  read  it  almost  word  for 
word  in  a  book.  As  it  was  only  last  night  I  read 
the  book,  or  rather  that  passage,  I  pronounce  you  a 
plagiarist." 

"We  are  all  plagiarists  when  we  talk.  Tell  me 
the  name  of  the  book." 

"I  can't  remember,  but  I'll  show  it  you  after  lun- 
cheon. It's  in  the  library." 

"And  do  you  mean  to  say,"  she  inquired,  with  an 
odd  look  at  his  pale,  expressionless  face,  "that  you 
read  that  identical  sentence  in  a  book  ?" 

"It  was  a  book  of  aphorisms  and  cynical  half- 
truths.  A  woman  only  writes  half  a  truth,  you 
know.  She's  so  fond  of  compromises." 

"Oh,  then,  this  was  a  woman's  book." 

"I  concluded  it  was.  But  I  never  look  for  an 
author's  name.  If  I  like  a  book  I  read  it.  If  I 
don't,  I  don't.  It  doesn't  matter  to  me  who  writes 
it." 

"You  must  be  a  boon  to  Mudie's,"  said  Lady  St. 
Quinton. 

"And  to  anonymous  authors,"  said  Lady  Brance- 
peth. 

"I  should  like  to  see  that  book,"  said  the  Amer- 
ican actress. 


A   JILT'S   JOUKNAL.  389 

"I  will  show  it  to  you  with  pleasure.  It  is  a  book 
of  the  purely  feminine  temperament.  The  neurotic, 
discontented,  semi-cynical  temperament  of  the  mod- 
ern woman.  She  rails  at  everything,  because  her 
innate  discontent  with  life  doesn't  alter  life." 

"Nothing  alters  life.  It  only  alters  you,"  mur- 
mured Mrs.  Desallion.  Her  eyes  took  a  sombre, 
inward  look,  as  if  she  were  gazing  at  mental  pic- 
tures. 

"We  are  afraid  of  ourselves,"  observed  Dickey. 
"The  endeavor  to  be  original  is  far  too  exhausting 
for  general  use.  To  copy  is  so  easy ;  to  lead,  so  un- 
popular." 

I  was  watching  Mrs.  Desallion ;  looking  at  the  red 
curves  of  her  closed  lips,  the  dreamy  droop  of  her 
heavy-lidded  eyes.  How  she  interested,  and  yet 
disturbed  me ! 

I  was  dimly  conscious  of  fresh  impulses  at  work 
within  me,  that  seemed  urged  into  being  by  no  con- 
scious will  of  my  own.  And  now — even  now  in 
the  silence  of  midnight,  in  the  quiet  surroundings  of 
my  own  room,  I  feel  that  same  fear  at  work  again. 

What  had  this  woman  known,  felt,  seen?  What 
lurked  in  the  sombre  depths  of  those  eyes?  What 
secret  chord  vibrated  to  the  music  of  that  mocking 
voice?  For  even  when  she  spoke  she  seemed  to 
listen  within  herself. 

I  cannot  express  it  in  any  other  way.  I  cannot 
express  her.  I  only  know  that  I  could  excuse  a 
man  any  madness,  any  folly  committed  for  sake  of 
this  woman.  But  if  she  loved  him,  then  indeed 
would  he  know  the  full  and  uttermost  depths  of— 
unhappiness. 

It  seemed  to  me  that  the  very  fact  of  yielding 
herself  to  any  one  of  the  sensations,  whose  experi- 


290  A   JILT'S   JOURNAL. 

ence  she  coveted,  would  be  an  argument  against  its 
possible  powers  of  satisfaction. 

As  I  wrote  this,  memory  flashed  back  along  its 
signal  wire  the  laughing  words  of  Dickey  Wren. 

That  book  from  which  Nina  Desallion  had  quoted 
— which  he  had  taken  her  to  the  library  to  see — 
was  there  not  something  familiar  in  its  style,  and  in 
that  very  plagiarism? 

Were  not  the  words  now  staring  me  in  the  face, 
less  the  utterance  of  my  own  thoughts,  than  the 
memory  of  another's?  I  stretched  a  hand  to  the 
little  brown  volume  on  the  shelf  above  my  writing 
table.  I  turned  over  the  pencil-marked  leaves.  So 
often  I  had  read  them  that  I  could  almost  place  my 
finger  on  a  desired  paragraph  at  will. 

Here  I  copy  two : 

"To  be  profound  is  the  sign  of  a  wasted  existence. 
Wasted  because  spent  in  educating  the  ordinary  (or 
unappreciative)  mind  to  your  own  standard  of  com- 
prehension." 

"An  innate  discontent  with  life  doesn't  alter  life — 
but  oh!  how  it  alters  yourself!" 

The  first  paragraph  was  almost  identical  with 
Nina  Desallion's  remark  to  Dickey  Wren.  The  sec- 
ond was  also  a  plagiarism,  applied  to  my  own 
theory  of  Nina  Desallion's  character. 

And  both  were  contained  in  Fenella's  Confessions. 


CHAPTER  XL 

LIFE  formed  itself  into  a  very  pretty  picture  for 
the  week  that  followed,  but  my  impatience  to  march 
to  interests  and  conquer  results  left  me  too  restless 
to  write  of  it  in  detail. 

Those  luncheons  and  teas  at  the  Court,  the  re- 
hearsals, the  chatter,  the  mirth,  the  cynicisms  and 
follies  and  extravagances  formed  a  brilliant  pano- 
rama that  I  could  not  describe  while  it  lasted. 
Amidst  it  all  one  figure  was  the  centre  of  all  inter- 
est and  all  attraction.  It  seemed  to  me,  however, 
a  little  strange  that  Nina  Desallion  should  always 
avoid  me.  And,  in  contrast  to  that  avoidance,  was 
her  openly  confessed  affection  for  Lesley. 

With  Lesley  she  would  talk  by  the  hour.  It 
was  Lesley  she  chose  as  companion  for  a  stroll 
through  park  or  gardens ;  Lesley  she  coached  in  the 
part  she  was  to  play  at  the  forthcoming  theatricals. 
But  did  I  approach  them  her  manner  altered,  she 
grew  cold  and  distant,  and  very  soon  would  leave 
us  together,  or  call  in  some  one  of  her  ever-watchful 
courtiers  to  prove  the  proverb  that  "three  were  no 
company"  when  7  was  the  third.  Yet  I  was  only 
the  more  fascinated,  the  more  admiring.  I  wor- 
shipped this  strange  woman  with  that  curious,  de- 
voted, all-absorbing  passion  a  girl  very  often  feels 
for  some  brilliant  prototype  of  her  own  sex.  She 
was  so  wonderful !  Over  and  over  again  I  said  that 
of  her  to  Lesley. 

291 


293  A   JILT'S   JOURNAL. 

So  wonderful.  When  she  rehearsed  even  the 
smallest  part  she  enchained  attention.  When  she 
spoke  Juliet's  lines  I  could  have  wished  myself 
Romeo,  only  to  have  believed  that  liquid,  impas- 
sioned utterance  addressed  to  myself.  For  when 
she  acted  she  dropped  all  Americanisms,  and  her 
voice  had  a  charm  as  powerful  as  her  own  person- 
ality. 

I  try  to  make  allowance  for  girlish  enthusiasm 
now  that  that  magical  week  has  gone,  and  she — has 
gone  with  it.  I  try  to  think  I  was  carried  off  my 
feet  by  her  genius  and  inexplicable  charm.  I  try 
to  convince  myself  that  Nina  Desallion  was  heart- 
less, cruel,  unprincipled — since  the  kindest  voice  I 
have  ever  listened  to  called  her  these — since*  I  saw 
a  gray  head  bent  in  sorrowful  abandonment  over  an 
unfinished  work,  and  learned  that  the  tears  of  age 
are  wrung  from  the  soul's  bitterest  anguish  and  the 
heart's  most  agonized  shame. 

How  to  write  of  it? 
***$*? 

I  am  alone  once  more  and  Lesley  has  gone,  and 
the  house  party  broken  up,  and  a  new  Paula  faces 
me  in  my  regained  solitude. 

A  Paula,  shuddering  and  half  afraid  of  some  un- 
confessable  discovery.  A  Paula,  hovering  on  the 
brink  of  a  question  she  dare  not  ask.  A  Paula 
gazing  with  frightened  eyes  at  sorrow,  and  praying 
that  its  touch  should  be  averted. 

"Not  yet,"  cries  her  heart — "not  yet.  A  little 
longer  to  believe,  and  laugh,  and  jest.  A  little 
longer  to  think  Love  has  some  truth,  Honor  some 
meaning,  Life  some  joy.  That  youth  is  something 
better  than  a  spent  lamp  with  the  light  gone  out—r 
that  there  are  wonderful  and  beautiful  things  in 


&  JILT'S   JOURNAL. 

Nature  to  which  one's  own  soul  brings  the  rapture 
of  recognition.       A  little    longer — only    a    little 

longer !" 

****** 

The  pen  fell  even  as  I  wrote.  The  growing  fear 
within  me  showed  its  face  without  a  mask.  I  dare 
not  breathe  to  living  soul  what  that  face  told  me — 

even  here  I  dare  not  write  it. 

****** 

Paint  to  yourself  a  child  straying  along  a  high- 
way, and  confronted  with  danger,  clutching  eagerly 
at  a  helping  hand.  The  hand  withdraws  its  aid ;  the 
puzzled,  appealing  look  meets  no  response,  the  aid 
that  was  so  possible  and  so  desired  has  passed. 
The  child  knows  itself  forsaken — but  is  ignorant  of 

the  cause. 

****** 

Paint  again  the  first  faith  and  hopefulness  of 
youth.  Listen  to  its  laugh — read  the  untroubled 
soul  through  clear,  untroubled  eyes.  Hear  it  ap- 
peal to  all  the  wonder-speech  of  gathered  wisdom, 
and  pray,  "Speak  to  me."  But  the  voice  of  woman 
mocks,  and  the  voice  of  man  is  cold,  and  the  voice  of 
Life  cruel,  and  the  jangling  discords  hold  no  mean- 
ing and  no  comfort. 

The  counsel  so  desired  is  valueless,  and  the  plead- 
ing voice  asks — Why? 

****** 

r 

Had  ever  hart  panted  for  the  water  brooks  more 
ardently  than  Paula's  soul  had  desired  the  meaning 
of  Life? 

Love  had  come  and  left  her  unmoved  and  uncar- 
ing. Friendship  was  a  meaningless  bond  that  held 
a  promise  and  withdrew  a  heart.  Experience,  as 
yet  but  brief  and  shallow,  had  preached  false  phil- 


8*41  A   JILT'S   JOURNAL. 

osophies,  was  full  of  pathetic  reaction,  leaving  only 
a  sense  of  loss  and  disillusion  after  every  lesson. 

Full  of  misgiving,  full  of  dread,  she  looked  out 
on  life  now,  and  whispered  fearfully,  "God — do  not 
let  this  be  true." 

****** 

It  is  often  unwise  to  question  a  feeling  too  closely 
— to  analyze  an  emotion  at  its  source;  but  to  peer 
into  the  hidden  mechanism  of  an  unnameable  dread 
is  to  suffer  such  terror  as  haunts  the  darkness  of 
long-closed  rooms  where  the  dead  seem  still  to 
linger. 

Could  the  dead  I  had  mourned  still  live?  Could 
that  beautiful  face  of  purity  and  loveliness,  and 
genius  and  truth,  have  become  suddenly  only  the 
mask  of  a  living  shame? 

Could  it  be  possible  that 

I  flung  the  pen  away  in  a  sudden  fury. 

"I  will  ask  him!  he  shall  tell  me!"  I  said. 
****** 

There  was  no  light  in  the  room  I  entered,  save 
what  poured  from  the  full  golden  splendor  of  the 
harvest  moon. 

The  window  opened  to  the  ground,  and  seated 
beside  it  in  the  old  worn  chair  was  the  familiar 
figiire. 

Something  in  its  bent  and  weary  attitude — some- 
thing in  the  lined  and  patient  face,  struck  chillingly 
on  my  own  excited  nerves. 

I  went  up  to  him  and  knelt  down  on  the  footstool 
by  his  chair. 

"Why— Paula !"  he  said.  "Not  in  bed— at  this 
time  of  night.  Is  anything  the  matter,  my  dear?" 

"Yes,"  I  said,  "a  great  deal  is  the  matter.     I  want 


A   JILT'S   JOURNAL.  915 

the  truth  about — myself.  You  have  never  told  it 
me." 

I  seemed  to  feel  the  curious  tremor  that  ran 
through  his  frame  as  I  met  the  unquiet  distress  of 
his  eyes  with  the  question  of  my  own. 

"The  truth,"  he  repeated.  "I — I  half  expected 
this.  Ask  your  questions,  Paula;  I  will  answer 
them  if  I  can." 

His  tone  was  very  quiet;  his  eyes  went  to  the 
garden,  where  flower  and  leaf  lay  washed  in  dew, 
and  steeped  in  radiance. 

"It  is  about  my — mother,"  I  said.  "Had  she  ever 
a  sister?" 

He  was  silent  so  long  that  I  was  about  to  repeat 
the  question  when  he  turned  toward  me.  My  hand 
lay  on  his  knee;  he  took  it  in  his  own,  laying  it 
palm  upward,  and  seeming  to  give  it  careful  at- 
tention. 

"I  know,"  he  said,  "why  you  ask  that — I  wish  it 
were  possible  to  say  'Yes,'  but  it  isn't — possible." 

"Then,"  I  pursued  relentlessly,  "am  I  to  under- 
stand that  you  consciously  deceived  me?  That  she 
never  died — that  when  you  sat  beside  me  under 
the  trees  at  Quinton  Court  and  saw  that  figure  on 
the  balcony  and  heard  that  voice,  it  was  not  illness 
that  made  you  faint — it  was  memory  and — recog- 
nition?" 

His  hand  closed  spasmodically  on  my  own,  crush- 
ing my  fingers  with  a  pressure  that  hurt. 

"Oh,  my  dear,  I  acted  for  the  best.  When 
Stephen  lay  broken,  dying,  and  told  me  she  had  left 
him,  I  promised  to  keep  the  story  from  you — if  I 
could.  He  tried  to  make  me  believe  she  was  not  to 
blame,  but  with  his  death  I  mourned  her  own.  A 
worse  death,  a  crueller  fate — the  death  of  honor 


29S  A   JILT'S    JOURNAL. 

and  faith  and  womanly  purity.  From  that  hour  I 
heard  or  saw  nothing  of  her  until  she  flashed  before 
me  on  that  moonlit  balcony — lovely — radiant — en- 
trancing as  ever.  It  seemed  as  if  a  blow  had  struck 
me.  You  said  afterward  I  fell  back  in  the  chair 
and  some  one  helped  me  away.  It  spoilt  your  even- 
ing, Paula — but  pray  heaven  it  may  not  spoil  your 
life  as — others'  have  been  spoilt." 

I  knelt  there  and  heard  in  a  sort  of  blind  stupor. 

This — the  end  of  that  story  woven  around  the 
mother  I  had  worshipped  in  my  memory. 

This — the  true  history  of  the  radiant,  lovely 
woman  I  had  envied  and  admired  so  passionately. 
This — the  fruit  of  all  that  beauty,  all  that  genius — 
that  conquering  charm  which  could  play  at,  and  win, 
and  lose  love  as  lightly  as  a  game  of  cards. 

When  the  numbness  passed,  a  sense  of  horror  and 
of  shame  swept  over  my  heart  and  filled  me  with  a 
fierce  rage.  To  have  adored  unworthiness,  to  have 
worshipped  at  the  shrine  of  a  false  image,  to  have 
studied  that  spurious  philosophy,  and  believed  it 
the  truth  of  life  and  the  outcome  of  a  reality  that 
proved  itself  now  the  veriest  sham! 

Oh,  what  blind  folly  had  been  mine!  She  had 
never  been  true  to  a  single  feeling,  a  single  senti- 
ment of  the  sorrow,  and  the  love,  and  the  sentiment 
she  had  described  so  well.  She  had  never  loved 
aught  save  herself,  or  how  could  she  have  deserted 
husband  and  child? — left  the  one  to  death  and  the 
other  to  charity — not  even  deigning  a  sign  of  recog- 
nition, a  passing  word  of  tenderness,  when  chance 
had  brought  us  face  to  face. 

That  stung!  That  hurt.  Her  attraction  for  me, 
my  worshipping  adoration  of  her,  my  foolish  tim- 
idity in  her  presence,  seeing  only  a*  loveliness  I 


A   JILT'S   JOUENAL.  297 

envied,  and  a  charm  that  now  showed  itself  the 
cloak  of  unpardonable  dishonor.  She  must  have 
known  me  from  the  first,  and  yet  had  never  vouch- 
safed a  sign  that  would  have  ranked  me  higher  in 
her  interests  than  a  stranger ! 

Suddenly,  above  the  racking  turmoil  within  me  I 
heard  the  professor's  voice  again. 

"It  is  a  sad  story — a  painful  story  to  meet  you 
on  the  threshold  of  life.  I  would  have  kept  it 
from  you  if  I  could.  What  made  you  suspect, 
Paula?" 

"I  hardly  know.  First  I  only  wondered  at  the 
likeness.  Then  she  said  things  that  were  in  her 
book.  That  seemed  odd  to  me,  and  I  read  them 
over  again,  and  suddenly — how  I  cannot  tell — a 
feeling  grew  up  within  me  that  there  was  something 
more  than  chance  in  it ;  and  Lesley  told  me  that  she 
was  always  questioning  her,  always  wanting  to 
know  about  my  life,  my  bringing-up,  my  character- 
istics. But  it  was  only  when  I  began  to  write  it  all 
down  that  the  fear  took  shape  and  the  truth  dawned 
upon  me.  Something  seemed  to  say  this  woman 
was  not  a  mere  stranger,  not  some  one  chance  had 
thrown  across  my  path,  and  I  remembered  your  agi- 
tation, that  strange  seizure,  your  broken  words — I 
resolved  to  ask  you  for  the  truth !" 

"What  a  truth!—"  I  cried  passionately.  "Oh, 
fool  that  I  was !  Couldn't  I  have  been  content  to  go 
on  as  I  was  going?  Why  must  I  forever  dig,  and 
search,  and  pry,  and  question?  Why  did  you 
tell " 

"Ah,  child,  don't  speak  so,"  he  entreated.  "You 
asked,  and  I  could  not  deny.  I  thought  the  ques- 
tion would  come  soon  or  late.  I  thought  she  might 
have  bidden  you — ask  me." 


A   JILT'S   JOURNAL. 

"She! — she  never  spoke  to  me  unless  she  was 
obliged;  gave  me  less  notice  than  the  dogs  that 
crouched  at  her  feet.  Let  me  be  made  sport  of, 
fooled,  by  those  other  hateful  women.  Left  me 
without  word  or  sign  as  she  has  always  done!" 

"Not  always,  dear,"  he  pleaded.  "She  loved  you 
when  you  were  a  little  child.  She  was  good  to  you 
then.  Once — when  you  were  recovering  from  some 
childish  illness  and  had  run  into  the  garden — the 
dew  was  falling,  I  remember — and  I  and  Stephen 
were  at  the  window  talking — she  suddenly  snatched 
up  a  little  gray  shawl  that  was  hanging  on  a  chair, 
and  ran  out  and  wrapped  it  round  you.  'How 
thoughtful  she  is!'  said  Stephen.  Then  I  knew  she 
loved  you,  Paula — even  if  she  loved  nothing  else." 

I  was  silent.  Something  within  me  struggling 
for  expression,  beaten  back,  unbelieving. 

"I — I  kept  that  little  shawl,"  he  said,  his  quiet, 
tender  voice  breaking  on  the  stillness  and  on  the 
waves  of  that  rebellious  sea  raging  within  my  soul. 
"Some  day,  Paula,  I  will  give  it  to  you — if  you  care 
to  have  it — because  that  night  at  least  her  heart  was 
full  of  her  little  child — and  she  was  true  woman  and 
true  mother  for  the  last  time." 

"That,"  I  said  breathlessly,  "was  the  last  time — 
before  she  left  my  father." 

"The  next  morning  she  had  gone,"  he  answered. 

"I  will  not  have  it,"  I  said,  coldly  and  relentlessly. 
"She  never  loved  even  that  little  child.  She  only 
played  at  sentiment." 

What  cut  my  words  short  and  sharp  ?  What  held 
me  like  a  prisoner,  caught  suddenly  in  unexpected 
chains  of  his  own  forging?  What  struck  me  like  a 
blow  with  my  own  use  of  my  own  words? 

Who  played  at  sentiment  if  not  Paula?     Who 


A   JILT'S   JOURNAL.  299 

took  each  phase  of  life  as  it  came  to  her  and  laid  it 
on  the  dissecting  table  of  her  own  curious  mind,  and 
spared  neither  herself  nor  others  in  the  research,  if 
not  Paula  ?  Who  had  listened  to  false  wisdom  and 
aped  the  mountebank  tricks  that  lead  women  into 
deadly  peril?  Who  had  questioned  the  hidden 
paths  that  morbid  fancies  and  sated  passions  tread 
in  search  of  pleasure?  Who  had  asked  to  know, 
and  know,  and  still  could  never  know  enough,  if 
net — Paula  ? 

And  now  I  knew  why. 

In  my  veins  ran  the  same  blood  that  had  poisoned 
that  other  life.  In  my  heart  lurked  perhaps  the 
same  passions.  She  had  cared  only  to  conquer  and 
to  charm  and  enslave!  She  stood  now  upon  the 
throne  of  the  world's  favor,  and  had  earned  the 
coveted  distinction  of  notoriety.  She  had  walked 
to  triumph  over  broken  hearts,  without  pity,  with- 
out remorse. 

Her  face  showed  no  signs  of  grief,  her  eyes  no 
shame  of  the  dead  sins  of  those  dead  years  to  which 
I  belonged — whose  fatal  fruits  might  be  my  heri- 
tage. 

****** 

In  that  hour  I  lost  youth  as  I  lost  faith. 

I  went  away,  and  back  to  my  room,  and  to  my 
written  confessions,  and  then — that  night — I  took 
those  other  Confes.sions  and  tore  them  leaf  after  leaf 
from  their  cover.  Tore  them,  with  blind  rage  and 
fury,  into  shreds  and  tatters. 

But  I  think  with  each  one  I  tore  away  something 
of  myself — the  old  Paula  that  I  should  never  meet 
again,  nor  jest,  nor  talk  to. 

The  Paula  who  had  learned  so  much  and  knew  so 
little. 


PART   III. 

*A  Little  Laughter  and  a  Little  Love." 


CHAPTER  I. 

TO-NIGHT  we  met  again — the  three  girls  who  had 
parted  at  life's  threshold  and  gone  their  several 
ways. 

To-night  Claire  and  Lesley  and  Paula  sat  by  the 
fire  in  Lesley's  dressing-room — a  sad  and  strange 
and  somewhat  silent  trio.  There,  on  the  wide 
Chesterfield,  lay  the  bridal  robe,  and  wreath,  and 
veil,  that  would  mean  for  one  of  us  the  greatest, 
strangest  change  a  woman's  life  can  know,  and  gaz- 
ing thoughtfully  into  the  fire  that  gleamed  so  cheer- 
ily behind  its  brass  fender,  sat  the  girl  who  would 
wear  that  bridal  attire. 

It  was  the  eve  of  Lesley's  wedding.  Claire  and  I 
were  staying  at  Stanhope  Gate,  but  after  the  wed- 
ding she  was  to  return  to  Paris  and  I  to  Scarffe. 

I  think  Claire  was  less  changed  than  either  Lesley 
or  myself.  She  had  charming  manners,  was  un- 
doubtedly elegant,  if  not  beautiful,  and  the  little 
half-foreign  tricks  of  speech  and  gesture  she  had 
acquired  gave  her  a  certain  attractiveness  that  was 
specially  noticeable  when  she  was  with  English  girls. 

She  had  been  relating  her  first  experiences  of  a 
Parisian  finishing  school,  and  describing  "figure 
training." 

300 


A  JILT'S   JOURNAL.  301 

The  gradual  lacing-in,  the  stiff  "corsets  de  nuit" 
the  manner  in  which  she  had  been  compelled  to 
stand  or  lie  in  those  instruments  of  torture  for 
hours,  until  she  was  on  the  verge  of  fainting.  Then 
the  strange,  unhealthy  fashion  of  wearing  sleeping- 
gloves  laced  up  to  the  elbow,  and  high-heeled  boots 
with  pointed  toes.  The  attention  paid  to  her  com- 
plexion and  hair — the  whole  arduous  routine  pre- 
scribed by  fashion  for  its  victims. 

"But  I  have  a  charming  waist,"  she  finished  up,  as 
she  rose  and  pressed  her  hands  either  side  of  her 
slim,  sz-elte  figure.  "Picture  to  yourself  when  I 
went  away  I  measured  twenty-four  inches,  and  now 
I  am  only  eighteen.  At  my  first  ball  I  was  quite  a 
success.  I  have  had  a  real  proposal  of  marriage  as 
I  told  you,  made,  of  course,  through  my  parents — 
not  to  one's  face,  as  in  England.  I  believe  they  are 
arranging  it.  I  do  not  object.  He  is  the  Vicomte 
de  Chaumont,  and  very  rich.  I  shall  live  in  Paris — 
most  of  my  time.  Oh !  it  is  adorable,  is  Paris,  and 
this  winter  I  shall  go  everywhere.  Be  fiancee  at  the 
end  of  the  season,  if  I  so  desire.  The  Vicomte  de 
Chaumont  is  enormously  rich,  my  mother  says.  He 
has  ever  so  many  chateaux,  and  a  hotel  in  the 
Champs  Elysees.  I  do  not  know  why  he  wishes  to 
marry  me,  except  that  he  has  a  craze  for  everything 
English.  English  sport,  English  horses,  English 
women.  He  says  an  English  girl  with  a  French 
education  is  the  most  perfect  type  of  woman  in  the 
world." 

I  looked  at  her  curiously.  Of  a  truth  the  finish- 
ing touches  of  Paris  had  produced  a  wonderful 
change.  Claire's  mother  was  an  Englishwoman 
who  had  married  a  wealthy  French  merchant,  and 
had  made  her  home  in  Paris. 


302  A   JILT'S   JOURNAL. 

"But  would  you  really  marry  a  man  only  because 
he  is  rich,  and  has  asked  your  parents'  permission 
to  address  you?"  I  inquired. 

"But  why  not?  I  should  be  a  simpleton  to  re- 
fuse. A  girl  is  nothing.  It  is  only  when  you  are 
married  that  you  become  of  importance.  You  have 
an  establishment  then,  and  can  have  a  salon  and 
play  at  grandc  dame  if  you  desire.  I  used  to  think 
as  we  do  in  England,  that  a  girl  must  love  a  man, 
and  he  her,  before  she  can  even  think  of  marriage. 
But  my  people  soon  showed  me  that  was  all  wrong. 
A  girl  cannot  possibly  know  anything  about  a  man, 
but  her  parents  can,  and  they  can  judge  if  he  is 
suitable  and  will  make  a  good  husband,  and  above 
all  give  her  a  good  position.  Vicomte  de  Chaumont 
is  of  a  very  great  family.  He  might  marry  some- 
body quite  as  great,  but  he  does  not  wish.  And 
he  is  so  good,  he  will  wait  for  my  decision,  and  not 
hurry  me;  and  the  settlements  he  proposed — 
mamma  said  they  were  princely!" 

Still  I  looked,  still  I  listened;  and  Lesley,  lifting 
that  white  narcissus  face  of  hers,  looked  also,  and 
listened. 

"They  were  a  little  afraid  to  let  me  come  here — 
to  England,"  Claire  went  on.  "But  I  said  I  must. 
We  were  the  three  friends  of  the  school.  Tiens! 
how  far  away  Aose  days  look!  You,  Lesley,  are 
making  a  great  marriage — and  I — I  think  I  shall  do 
the  same.  And  you,  Paula — what  is  it  you  intend  ? 
Do  you  still  take  life  au  grand  sericux?" 

"I  have  not  distorted  my  waist,"  I  said,  "I  have 
left  my  complexion  alone,  and  my  hands  are  sun- 
burnt. I  have  had  one  season,  and  four  proposals, 
and  now  I  am  going  to  see  what  Lesley  and  yourself 
make  of  marriage !" 


"A   JILT'S   JOURNAL.  303 

She  stared  at  me,  and  then  began  to  laugh. 

"You  were  always  so  funny — I  think  you  are 
funnier  than  ever.  Do  you  remember  what  I  used 
to  say  about  you?" 

"You  used  to  say  a  great  many  things  about  me." 

"I  used  to  think  you  were  always  writing  a  book 
— mentally — and  putting  everything  and  everybody 
in  it.  Have  you  found  out  any  of  the  things  you 
were  so  anxious  to  know?  The  secrets  of  love — 
the  hearts  of  men  .or  women — the  real  truth  of  any- 
thing?" 

"No,"  I  said,  quietly,  "I  haven't  discovered  a  sin- 
gle secret,  or  the  real  truth  of  any  heart,  or  nature, 
or  life." 

"Then  you've  only  been  looking  on — as  yet." 

"As  yet,"  I  agreed. 

Lesley's  eyes  met  mine.  It  had  been  hard  to  hide 
from  her  how  unhappy  I  was;  how  bitter  the  taste 
of  my  first  fruit  of  knowledge  had  been  to  my  lips. 

"Perhaps,"  said  Claire,  "you  have  not  had  our 
opportunities." 

She  moved  across  the  room  and  touched  the  lus- 
trous folds  of  satin  with  a  reverent  hand.  "How 
lovely  you  will  look,  Lesley,"  she  said.  "I  almost 
envy  you." 

"The  dress?"  asked  Lesley,  "or — the  tragedy  it 
symbolizes?" 

"Marriage  a  tragedy — Quoi  done!  A  comedy 
you  mean.  It  rests  with  ourselves  to  make  it  so." 

"A  comedy  of  errors,"  I  suggested. 

"You  always  manage  to  say  horrid  things,  chere 
Paula !  I  can't  fancy  any  man  falling  in  love  with 
you!" 

"We  were  talking  of  marriage,  not  of  falling  in 
love." 


304  A  JILT'S   JOURNAL. 

"Eh,  bien — tell  me" — she  dropped  the  fold  of 
satin  and  came  back — "how  is  it  you  have  been 
four  times  proposed  to  and  yet — are  not  even  a 
fiancee?" 

"Because  I  did  not  care  enough  for  any  of  the 
four  to  sacrifice  a  woman's  best  possession — inde- 
pendence." 

"Don't  tell  me,  Paula,  you  have  got  strong- 
minded,  and  want  to  get  on  platforms  and  tell 
women  all  the  horrid  rational  things  that  make 
them  discontented  with  men,  and  conceited  about 
themselves !" 

"No,"  I  said.  "My  ambitions  don't  lie  in  the 
direction  of  platform  oratory  any  more  than  they 
tend  to  marriage.  As  I  said  before,  I  am  going  to 
watch  the  result  of  an  experiment  before  I  attempt 
it  on  my  own  behalf." 

She  stood  lightly  swaying  on  one  foot,  and  ex- 
amined me  critically. 

"You  ought  to  be  a  success,"  she  said  presently. 
"You  are  very  striking-looking.  Of  course  there 
are  men  who  admire  vivid  coloring,  and  men  who 
don't.  One  never  knows  what  will  take.  You  and 
Lesley  are  the  greatest  possible  contrast.  But  I 
must  say,  Paula,  since  you  left  school  you  have 
much  improved." 

"I  am  glad  to  hear  it.  Although  my  waist  still 
measures  twenty-two  inches." 

"Oh,  la,  la!  does  it  really?  You  must  have  a 
very  good  dressmaker,  for  it  does  not  look  any 
larger  than  mine." 

"I  will  tell  her  so,"  I  answered.  "She  almost  ob- 
jected to  my  bridesmaid  measurements.  They  are 
two  inches  in  excess  of  what  she  considers  the  fash- 
ionable standard." 


A   JILT'S   JOUENAL.  305 

"You  have  no  idea  how  soon  you  get  used  to  the 
compression." 

"I  don't  want  to  have  any  idea,  or  any  compres- 
sion. Tell  me  some  more  about  French  women, 
Claire.  One  never  seems  to  know  them  except  en 
grande  tenue — shopping,  visiting,  dining,  cycling. 
What  is  their  home-life  like?" 

"I  really  don't  know.  Except  that  my  mother 
says  they  are  never  fit  to  be  seen  in  the  morning. 
Always  a  case  of  peignoir,  and  curling-pins,  and 
flat-heeled  shoes.  You  see,  domestic  life  in  France 
is  very  different  from  ours — especially  in  the  higher 
ranks  of  society.  Monsieur  has  his  apartments; 
madame  has  hers.  She  visits  or  receives,  or  goes 
where  she  pleases,  without  question  from  him.  They 
have  .none  of  our  stupid  nine  o'clock  breakfasts. 
They  take  their  coffee  or  chocolate  in  their  own 
room,  and  meet  at  the  mid-day  dejeuner — or  not. 
Go  their  own  way,  in  fact.  And  as  long  as  they  are 
discreet,  and  convenable,  the  whole  menage  conducts 
itself  admirably.  That — my  mother  explains — is 
why  there  are  so  few  scandals  and  quarrels  in  a 
French  household.  We  English,  she  says,  are  too 
intimate,  too  much  thrown  together,  too  exacting 
the  one  of  the  other." 

"I  see.     It  certainly  sounds  very  sensible." 

"Oh,  but  it  is  sensible,  I  assure  you.  At  my 
home  that  is  how  everything:  goes,  and  my  father  is 
so  kind,  and  so  considerate  and  generous.  Why, 
my  mother  told  me  he  never  questions  an  account, 
however  extravagant.  And  her  jewels — he  is  al- 
ways giving  her  jewels.  Sometimes  he  has  to  go 
away  on  business  to  other  cities — Lyons,  Marseilles, 
Vienna — even  Russia,  but  he  never  fails  to  bring 
her  back  a  magnificent  present.  Oh,  their  marriage 


306  A   JILT'S   JOURNAL. 

has  been  a  great  success,  and  yet  she  was  only  a  girl 
when  she  made  it." 

"That  is  very  encouraging  for  you,"  I  said. 

"Certainly  it  is.  But  why  for  me  more  than  for 
Lesley?  She  also  makes  a  mariage  de  convenance 
— is  it  not,  ma  chere?  Of  a  truth  you  have  shown 
no  enthusiasm  either  with,  or  without,  the  presence 
of  Lord  Lynmouth.  He  is,  of  course,  devoted — 
that  is  without  doubt.  But  you " 

Lesley's  delicate  little  face  grew  a  shade  whiter. 

"I  am  as  happy  as  I  expected,"  she  said.  "It  was 
only  Paula  who  asked  great  things  of  life.  You  and 
I,  Claire,  will  take  just  what  it  gives." 

"That  is  true,  ma  chore,  and  our  poor  Paula  will 
be  asking,  and  seeking,  and  criticising,  while  we  are 
enjoying.  That  is  just  the  difference." 

"Yes,"  I  said.  "The  difference  being  your  idea  of 
enjoyment,  and  mine — of  life." 

Claire  seated  herself  again,  and  for  a  moment  we 
were  silent. 

"I  hope,"  she  suddenly  said,  "that  on  the  eve  of 
my  marrrage  I  shall  not  be  so  gloomy,  so  triste  as 
you  seem,  Lesley.  I  have  not  once  seen  you  smile, 
even  when  you  looked  at  your  riviere  of  diamonds 
and  that  adorable  gown.  You  ought  to  be  happy! 
Such  a  trousseau,  such  jewels,  and  such  presents — 
fit  for  a  princess!  and  yet  you  are  as  grave  as  an 
owl.  I  think  Paula  makes  you  so.  Moi,  I  would 
have  only  laughter  and  joy  and  merriment  about  my 
wedding  eve,  and  should  keep  my  thoughts  only  to 
the  settlement  and  the  jewels,  and  the  perfect  estab- 
lishment I  meant  to  have,  and  the  season  when  I 
would  be  presented  with  my  new  title !  Oh,  life  is 
the  most  charming  thing  when  you  are  young  and 
such  a  future  lies  before  you !" 


A   JILT'S   JOURNAL.  307 

"I  think  you  would  want  trumpeters  to  herald 
your  future,  Claire,  and  outriders  before  your  car- 
riage, and  a  general  crowd  of  lookers-on  to  applaud 
and  envy.  You  are  of  the  type  that  signalizes  the 
end  of  the  century.  Noise,  glitter,  show,  eclat 
should  fill  your  days,  and  everything  be  a  pageant ! 
Your  chief  happiness  the  outrivaling  of  a  rival,  or 
the  out-reaching  an  extravagance.  Your  ambition, 
not  how  select  your  salon  can  be,  but  how  crowded. 
Your  heart's  desire,  not  the  treasure  of  one  perfect 
love,  but  the  exciting  dalliance  with  a  hundred  lov- 
ers." 

I  broke  off  abruptly.  I  had  not  meant  to  say  so 
much,  but  two  months  of  garnered  misery  and  hid- 
den shame  had  left  me  very  bitter.  If  my  ideals  had 
been  impossible,  at  least  they  had  been  pure;  if  my 
desires  had  seemed  exacting,  I  was  prepared  to  give 
the  best  of  myself  in  exchange. 

I  knew  Lesley's  heart,  and  Claire  did  not.  I  felt 
how  her  sensitive  nature  must  shrink  from  all  this 
publicity,  from  the  panoply  of  outward  show,  the 
jewels  and  satins  and  gifts  so  lavishly  showered 
upon  an  envied  bride. 

I  did  not  envy  her  any  more  than  she  envied  her- 
self. 

Claire  looked  at  me,  her  eyebrows  arched  in  as- 
tonishment and  a  slight  flush  warming  her  cheek. 

"del!  but  how  you  talk.  What  is  the  harm  of  a 
grand  manage?  If  it  has  to  be  at  all,  it  is  better 
it  should  be  one  that  people  will  envy,  not  pity.  And 
in  one,  two,  three  years  it  matters  so  little  to  your- 
self whom  you  have  married,  but  if  there  be  all 
sorts  of  compensating  advantages,  then  you  can  be 
extremely  content,  and  choose  your  own  path,  and 
be  happy  your  own  way." 


303  A   JILT'S   JOURNAL. 

Lesley  made  a  little  impatient  movement  and 
glanced  at  the  clock.  It  pointed  to  five  minutes  of 
midnight.  Claire  rose  languidly.  She  was  in  a 
primrose  satin  dressing-robe,  bordered  with  white 
fur,  and  had  not  yet  removed  her  corsets. 

"We  must  not  tire  you,  Lesley,"  she  said.  "It  is 
just  upon  midnight.  Good-night,  ma  bien  aimee; 
sleep  well,  and  dream  of  the  glories  before  you. 
They  will  never  come  the  way  of  our  dear  wise 
Paula;  or  if  they  do — she  won't  appreciate  them." 

"I  shall  appreciate  them  at  their  worth,"  I  said. 
"But  the  worth  of  anything  in  this  world  is  only  the 
value  one's  own  soul  puts  upon  it.  Queens  and 
kings  have  been  poor  and  beggars  rich." 

"It  is  such  a  dear,  wise,  serious  old  owl !"  laughed 
Claire,  kissing  me  on  either  cheek.  "But  how  can 
one  wonder?  Figure  to  yourself  a  life  among  old 
ruins,  and  dusty  books,  and  a  wise  old  professor 
for  guardian — that  is  how  you  showed  yourself, 
Paula,  in  your  letters.  That  is  how  I  have  pictured 
you.  But  there — we  will  talk  no  more,  seeing  we 
have  not  once  agreed.  Bonne  nuit,  mes  cheries." 

She  nodded  and  passed  through  the  archway  di- 
viding the  two  rooms,  and  we  heard  the  outer  door 
close. 

Lesley  and  I  stood  silent,  avoiding  each  other's 
eyes.  At  the  first  sound  of  the  striking  hour  her 
head  drooped,  her  hands  went  out  to  me. 

I  held  them,  and  I  felt  them  grow  colder  with 
each  silvery  note.  At  the  last  she  lifted  her  head 
and  turned  and  looked  at  her  reflection  in  the  mir- 
ror above.  Looked  so  long,  so  silently,  that  I  could 
almost  feel  the  force  of  the  thoughts  that  thronged 
within  her  brain ;  could  almost  trace  in  the  deep,  in- 
tent eyes  the  shadow  of  those  pictures  they  beheld, 


A  JILT'S   JOURNAL.  309 

But  still  she  did  not  speak. 

"Claire  has  altered  very  much,"  I  said,  at  last 
breaking  the  silence,  with  a  sudden  dread  of  its 
mysteries. 

She  started  and  seemed  to  come  out  of  her  trance. 
Our  eyes  met  in  one  quick  look. 

"We  are  all  altered,"  she  said  in  a  low,  restrained 
voice.  "You,  Paula,  most  of  all." 

"I? — more  than  yourself,  Lesley?" 

"It  is  in  recognizing  my  own  change  I  recognize 
yours,  but  we  won't  talk  of  it  to-night,  dear — not 
now.  It  would  be  too  sad.  They  say  it  is  ill-luck 
to  weep  on  your  wedding-day — day,  Paula;  it  has 
come  to  that.  Yesterday  has  ceased  to  exist;  and 
very,  very  soon  I  shall  have  ceased  to  be  the  girl  you 
have  known.  Such  a  little  thing  will  alter  it.  A 
form  of  words,  a  little  ring  of  gold.  I  wonder  how 
other  girls  feel  who  are  making  a  marriage  like 
mine?  For  one  must  feel,  Paula ;  one  can't  help  it." 

"Lesley,"  I  entreated,  "it's  not  too  late,  if  you're 
unhappy,  afraid " 

She  half  smiled,  but  those  deep  eyes  met  mine 
tranquilly  still. 

"Afraid — I  was  never  that,  Paula.  But  I  am 
ashamed — bitterly,  horribly  ashamed — and  to  hide 
that  shame  I  will  go  through  with  it.  Do  you  hear  ? 
I — will.  When  you  hear  me  say  that  to-morrow, 
Paula- — " 

I  shuddered  as  if  a  cold  blast  had  penetrated  that 
warm  and  perfumed  atmosphere. 

"We  had  better  say  no  more  if  your  mind  is  made 
up." 

"You  are  thinking  of  how  I  shall  appear  at  the 
ceremony.  Have  no  fear.  I  possess  a  very  clever 
maid." 


310  A   JILT'S   JOURNAL. 

"Don't,  Lesley,"  I  entreated.  "I  hate  to  hear  you 
talk  that  society  jargon." 

The  bitterness  left  her  small,  curved  mouth,  and  it 
smiled — a  pale,  faint  shadow  of  the  smile  I  had 
once  seen  there. 

Suddenly  she  raised  her  hand,  and  with  one  finger 
touched  the  blue  veins  beneath  her  sombre  eyes. 

"Do  you  see  that?"  she  said  softly.  "That,  Paula, 
is  the  only  sign  I  am  afraid  of.  It  is  the  tear  chan- 
nel. The  most  self -betray  ing  secret  of  a  woman's 
face.  No  art  can  hide,  no  power  disguise  it.  While 
you  are  young  it  only  makes  you  look  interesting. 
But  the  years  go  on,  and  the  faint  line  is  ploughed 
into  a  channel  and  the  outline  of  the  cheek  is  cut 
as  by  a  sword.  Study  a  woman's  face,  Paula,  and 
learn  by  that  line  of  the  grief  she  has  borne,  and  the 
tears  she  has  shed.  You  will  never  believe  her 
smiles  then,  nor  her  words  that  tell  you  she  is — 
happy." 

"Shall  I  go  now,  Lesley?"  I  asked,  after  another 
pause. 

"Yes,  dear.  We  have  said  good-by  to  a  great 
deal;  all  the  foolish  fancies  and  ideals  and  hopes 
that  were  ours  a  year  ago.  It  isn't  much  sadder  to 
say  good-by  to — each  other." 

"Must  we  do— that?"  I  asked,  sadly.  "Will  you 
be  less  true  to  me  and  our  old  trust  and  love  after — 
after  to-day?" 

"I  don't  know.     I  cannot  tell." 

Her  voice  lost  its  calm  and  grew  hurried.  "Don't 
ask  me  anything  to-night,  Paula — don't  make  me 
think.  Oh,  my  dear,  if  ever  you  loved  me,  don't 
make  me  think — to-night !" 


CHAPTER  II. 

IT  was  the  first  wedding  I  had  ever  seen  as  an 
interested  assistant,  not  a  mere  spectator. 

From  first  to  last  the  brilliant  pageant  played  it- 
self successfully.  Who  could  know  that  the  ad- 
mired and  admirable  centre  of  it  all  was  not  as 
radiant  with  happiness  as  she  looked?  Who  could 
say  that  the  exquisite  flush  which  mantled  her  cheek 
was  of  art,  not  nature's  painting?  Who  tell  that 
the  hard  glitter  of  the  eyes  meant  the  defiance  of 
sternly  repressed  tears  ? 

She  went  through  it  all  so  bravely  that  I  could 
only  wonder  where  she  had  found  strength. 

From  that  first  whispered  "Here  she  comes"  to 
that  last  "Good-by"  that  caught  the  air  with  a 
laugh,  and  died  in  an  echo  of  scattered  rice  and 
swift-rolling  wheels,  I  had  seen  only  Lesley — my 
Lesley.  Not  the  sheen  of  her  magnificent  dress,  the 
sparkle  of  her  jewels,  the  haughty  poise  of  the  little, 
queenly  head,  but  Lesley  with  the  moonlight  shin- 
ing on  her  white  face,  with  despair  in  her  eyes,  with 
clasped  hands  wrung  in  agony;  Lesley  pouring  out 
her  heart  to  me  and  telling  me  a  history  that  made 
to-day's  ceremony  a  hateful  mockery. 

But  she  had  learned  the  world's  lesson  well.  Her 
beauty,  her  grace,  her  bearing,  her  wonderful  com- 
posure were  the  theme  of  everyone's  admiration,  and 
I  heard  Claire  murmur  that  she  should  treasure  the 
example  in  her  memory  for  future  use,  when  a  few 

311 


313  A   JILT'S   JOURNAL. 

months  later  she  herself  might  be  transformed  into 
Madame  de  Chaumont. 

The  guests  had  departed,  and  Lady  Archie,  worn 
out,  so  she  declared,  had  retired  for  a  rest  after  the 
reception.  I,  too,  escaped  to  my  own  room. 

The  evening  was  to  end  up  with  a  visit  to  the 
theatre.  I  had  only  just  heard  of  it.  All  the  brides- 
maids, Lady  Archie  and  her  husband,  the  Lorely, 
and  a  few  choice  spirits  were  to  be  the  occupants  of 
a  row  of  circle  seats.  Stalls  had  not  been  procur- 
able. There  was  such  a  run  on  the  piece. 

I  felt  very  tired,  and  almost  wished  I  could  excuse 
myself  from  going,  but  as  the  principal  bridesmaid 
I  knew  it  would  look  affected,  or  ungracious. 

I  got  out  of  my  finery  and  threw  myself  on  the 
bed.  My  room  adjoined  Lesley's  dressing-room, 
and  through  the  open  door  I  could  see  her  wedding 
dress  and  veil  and  wreath,  as  she  had  left  them 
when  changing  into  her  traveling  gown. " 

They  fascinated  my  eyes.  Such  a  little  while 
they  had  been  worn,  yet  never,  never  again  would 
that  wearer  be  the  girl  who  had  put  them  on  for 
those  few  hours  of  pageantry. 

I  thought  of  her  on  the  previous  night;  of  those 
dark,  wide,  terrified  eyes ;  of  her  words  —  "If 
you  ever  loved  me  don't  make  me  think  —  to- 
night!" 

"But  you  will  have  to  think,  Lesley,"  I  said  to 
myself. '  "No  one  can  escape  from  themselves  al- 
ways. There  is  something  pursuing  you,  even 
now ;  sitting  by  your  side  as  you  drive  on  that  first 
stage  of  your  wedding  journey.  It  will  catch  you 
up,  fly  you  ever  so  swiftly ;  it  will  haunt  you  as  your 
words  haunt  me." 

****** 


A   JILT'S   JOURNAL.  313 

The  dim  October  dusk  crept  in  through  the  win- 
dow, and  all  about  was  quiet. 

I  thought  of  the  old  room  at  Scarffe,  and  the 
familiar  figure  in  the  chair,  and  wondered  if  he 
missed  me.  This  was  our  tea-hour — the  hour  we 
always  spent  together.  The  hour  when  quiet  con- 
fidences and  broken  words  strove  to  heal  that  never- 
ending  pain  of  mine ;  strove  to  teach  me  the  charity 
of  life  as  well  as  its  high  standards ;  the  patience  of 
life  as  well  as  its  great  truths. 

At  first  it  had  been  intolerable  to  me  to  speak  of 
that  secret.  Any  allusion  was  as  the  pressure  of  a 
rough  hand  on  raw  flesh. 

How  tenderly  and  how  skilfully  I  had  been  dealt 
with  I  only  began  to  learn  in  these  days  of  absence 
in  this  atmosphere  of  worldly  frivolity. 

Lesley  had  recognized  a  change  in  me,  but  guessed 
nothing  of  its  cause;  Claire  had  summed  me  up  in 
her  light  fashion  the  previous  night;  Lady  Archie 
had  laughingly  declared  I  must  have  taken  an  over- 
dose of  archaeology  since  my  last  visit  to  town ;  the 
Lorely's  shafts  had  sped  my  way  disregarded.  I 
had  but  one  dread — that  any  of  these  heartless,  jest- 
ing people  should  find  out  what  the  secret  was  that 
had  overshadowed  my  life — lest  they  should  hear 
who  and  what  was  the  woman  tempted  by  devils  of 
lust  and  greed,  and  vanity  and  desire,  from  the  path 
of  honor  and  the  ties  of  duty. 

When  I  thought  of  it,  when  I  remembered  how  I 
had  idolized  that  memory,  I  grew  mad  with  fierce 
rage  and  blind  with  tears  of  passion.  Not  once  in 
these  months  had  I  learned  to  regard  her  with  any 
sense  of  pity,  or  excuse  her  with  any  recognition  of 
the  force  temptation  might  take. 

I  had  written  of  my  feelings  over  and  over  again, 


314  A   JILT'S   JOURNAL. 

but  the  writing  only  served  to  lash  them  into  yet 
wilder  fury,  as  the  impotence  of  the  breaking  waves 
seems  to  gather  fresh  force  with  the  swelling  tide 
on  which  they  mount. 

"You  are  very  young,  Paula,"  the  patient  voice 
had  said  again  and  again.  "And  the  young  are  al- 
ways unjust  and  loth  to  find  excuse.  Life  has 
much  to  teach  you,  ere  you  can  consider  mercy  be- 
fore judgment." 

****** 

Even  here,  amidst  the  trappings  of  wedding  fin- 
ery, the  excitement  of  the  day,  I  could  not  get  away 
from  that  memory.  Tired  brain  and  aching  head 
lay  on  the  pillow,  but  to  Paula  herself  came  no  rest. 

"I  will  go  home  to-morrow,"  I  said  to  myself.  "I 
am  best  at  home.  Among  all  these  people  I  only 

seem  to  feel  more  desolate." 

*  V  *  *  *  * 

I  think  I  fell  asleep.  I  remember  starting  up  at 
the  flash  of  a  light  in  the  room  and  hearing  Claire's 
voice  asking  me  if  I  was  coming  down  to  dinner. 

T  soon  got  into  my  dress  again,  and  she  arranged 
my  hair  with  a  few  deft  touches. 

"It  is  the  most  wonderful  thing  about  you,  that 
hair  of  yours,"  she  said.  "I  have  never  seen  any- 
thing like  it.  Paula,  what  sort  of  men  were  they 
that  wanted  to  marry  you?" 

"How  you  do  harp  on  that  one  string!"  I  cried 
impatiently.  "What  does  it  matter?  One  was  a 
farmer,  one  an  American  doctor"  (I  did  give  him 
his  title).  "Another  was  a  self-made  millionaire, 
and  another  you  will  see  to-night.  They  call  him 
Tommy  Dodd.  He  is  the  only  'title'  I  have  man- 
aged to  charm,  and  he  has  asked  me  to  marry  him 
twice  already." 


A   JILT'S   JOURNAL.  315 

"And  why  won't  you?'* 

"Because  he  is  an  empty-headed  fool!"  I  said 
impatiently. 

She  made  one  of  her  expressive,  foreign  gestures. 
"Ctel!  but  you  are  strange.  What  can  that  matter 
if  it  is  a  good  chance?  And  a  fool  makes  the  safest 
husband." 

"Do  not  preach  your  horrid,  foreign  infidelities  to 
me,"  I  said  coldly.  "A  woman  owes  a  debt  to  her- 
self. She  has  no  right  to  forget  or  forego  it.  If 
she  cannot  love  the  man  to  whom  she  gives  herself, 
she  is  committing  a  sin  if  she  marries  him." 

"That  is  so  prudish — so  old-fashioned,  my  Paula. 
I  wish  I  had  you  for  a  year  in  Paris.  You  would 
soon  cease  to  hold  such  theories.  Why,  even  Les- 
ley  " 

"Don't,  please,  speak  of  Lesley,"  I  said  hurriedly. 
"If  she  has  added  one  more  to  the  mistakes  of  social 
vanity,  so  much  the  more  does  she  need  pity.  And 
she  will  need  it  before  her  life  ends." 

"You  certainly  are  a  crank,  Paula.  And  how 
you  talk!  Tell  me,  have  you  written  a  book  yet? 
I  always  said  you  would." 

I  moved  across  the  room  for  my  gloves  and  began 
to  draw  them  on.  "No,"  I  said,  "nor  do  I  intend 
to." 

"Then  you  still  scribble  with  your  mind,"  she 

said,  laughing. 

****** 

About  me  as  I  write  to-night  flash  the  glare  and 
brilliance  of  a  scene  to  which  I  suddenly  grew  deaf 
and  blind. 

Was  I  so  ignorant,  so  stupid,  that  the  talk  about 
me  had  conveyed  nothing  of  the  name  of  the  play  or 
the  theatre  whither  we  were  driven?  Fourteen  seats 


310  A  JILT'S  JOUKNAL. 

in  the  front  row  of  the  circle  held  our  party.  We 
created  some  slight  stir  as  we  entered — the  six 
bridesmaids  in  their  dresses  of  the  day,  the  other 
guests  in  evening  attire,  conspicuous  among  them 
being  Lady  Brancepeth,  in  diamond  shoulder  straps 
and  very  little  else  in  the  way  of  corsage. 

We  were  a  little  late;  the  curtain  was  up.  I  took 
the  seat  indicated,  placed  my  bouquet  on  the  velvet 
ledge,  and  then  looked  at  the  stage.  It  was  almost 
dark.  Two  people  occupied  it — a  man  and  a  wo- 
man. The  woman  had  her  back  turned,  but  I  knew 
her  even  before  the  light  flashed  on  her  red-gold 
hair.  I  knew  the  languid  grace  of  that  matchless 
figure,  and  the  voice  that  reached  my  ears  turned 
me  faint  and  sick  with  memories.  Only  the  great- 
est effort  kept  me  from  betraying  myself,  enabled 
me  to  sit  still,  while  about  me  the  rustle  of  dresses 
sweeping  into  place  was  like  the  surge  of  the  sea. 
Waves  of  sound  throbbed  in  the  air,  and  my  ears 
caught  no  meaning — the  scene  went  on,  and  con- 
veyed to  me  nothing  comprehensible.  I  was  thank- 
ful for  the  semi-obscurity  around,  thankful  that  no 
one  was  observing  me.  I  regained  composure  be- 
fore the  act  was  over,  and  froze  into  a  critical  con- 
demnation of  the  play  that  was  as  heartless  in  its 
teachings,  as  immoral  in  its  attitude  to  life,  as 
plausible,  and  false,  and  cruel  as  the  era  that 
had  evoked,  and  the  sated,  blase  audience  who  ap- 
plauded it. 

It  was  a  relief  when  some  one  in  the  gallery  hissed 
and  the  pit  was  coldly  silent. 

The  piece  was  evidently  only  suited  to  the  com- 
prehension of  the  upper  classes.  I  had  heard  Dickey 
Wren  chuckle  delightedly,  and  the  Honorable 
Tommy  Yelverton  pronounce  it  "rippin'."  Lan- 


A   JILT'S   JOUKNAL.  317 

guid  occupants  of  stalls  and  boxes  applauded  rap- 
turously. 

I  felt  sorry  to  think  a  woman  had  written  the  play, 
and  that  a  woman  was  acting  in  it  whose  own  life 
might  have  matched  its  heartless  platitudes. 

But  when  they  called  her  back  again,  and  yet 
again,  and  she  bowed,  and  smiled,  and  stood,  a  liv- 
ing picture  of  sensuous  beauty  among  the  glow  of 
flowers  that  had  been  cast  at  her  feet,  I  met  her  eyes 
for  the  first  time.  Full  and  straight  across  that 
lighted  space  we  looked ;  from  face  to  face.  Again 
that  curious  stillness  crept  over  hers  as  when  first  we 
had  met,  and  she  had  heard  my  name. 

The  distance  that  separated  us  now  was  not  dark- 
enough  to  hide  the  secret  that  she  held,  nor  wide 
enough  to  keep  back  from  her  heart  the  message 
sent  by  mine. 

I  think  she  knew  that  I  knew  her — at  last. 


CHAPTER  III. 

IT  was  growing  dark  when  I  reached  Scarffe  Sta- 
tion. I  glanced  carelessly  at  the  few  figures  on  the 
platform,  and  to  my  surprise  saw  the  professor.  I 
had  wired  from  town  that  morning  that  I  was  com- 
ing down,  but  had  never  expected  he  would  meet 
me. 

A  memory  of  that  other  arrival,  when  I  had  found 
myself  alone,  and  apparently  forgotten,  came  over 
me  as  I  greeted  him.  In  this  year  we  had  grown 
curiously  interested  in  and  attached  to  one  another. 

"I  have  a  cab  for  your  luggage,"  he  said,  as  we 
went  out  of  the  station.  "You  see,  Paula,  I  am 
waking  up  to  the  obligations  of  every-day  life  at 
last." 

I  gave  his  arm  a  little  squeeze.  "It  was  good  of 
you  to  come,"  I  said. 

"Not  so  good  as  your  return.  I  never  expected 
you  could  tear  yourself  away  from  your  gay  friends 
and  the  pleasures  of  town  so  soon.  I  suppose  the 
wedding  was — as — ah — brilliant  as  you  expected?" 

"Yes,"  I  said.     "Quite." 

We  got  into  the  musty  old  cab  and  jolted  along 
for  some  time  in  silence. 

The  familiar  landmarks  came  and  went  like 
ghosts  in  the  falling  dusk.  I  turned  to  him. 

"Do  you  know,"  I  said,  "I  believe  I  am  growing 
fond  of  Scarffe.  When  I  was  away  it  positively 

haunted  me." 

818 


A   JILT'S   JOUENAL.  319 

"Any  one  who  feels  or  thinks  deeply,"  he  said, 
"cannot  help  becoming  attached  to — ah — places  that 
possess  interest  and  beauty.  •  Modern  life  is  doing 
its  best  to  destroy  both ;  its  touch  is  a  scourge.  But 
we  have  averted  it  here  as  yet.  Not  for  long,  I  fear. 
But  to  me  this  place  is  one  of  the  few  that  possesses 
tranquillity,  historic  interest,  and — ah — mediaeval 
charm.  I  have  worked  without  fear  of  intrusion, 
and  made — ah — researches  without  interruption.  I 
too  am  attached  to  the  place.  I  shall  be  sorry  to 
leave  it." 

"Why  should  you  leave  it?"  I  asked  quickly. 

"When  my  book  is  finished,"  he  answered,  "there 
will  be  no  need  to  remain.  And  it  is  a  dull  life  for 
youth,  Paula." 

"My  youth  can  flourish  very  well  here,"  I  said. 
"Life  is  better  and — safer,  too — than  in  the  world." 

"Life,"  he  said,  "has  not  brought  you  what  it 
should  bring  to  youth,  or  you  would  not  say  that." 

I  made  no  answer,  and  we  drove  on. 

It  seemed  to  me  such  a  long,  long  time  since  I  had 
driven  here  by  Adam  Herivale's  side,  the  cold  De- 
cember moon  shining  through  rifts  of  clouds,  the 
rain  falling  mistily  over  the  dark,  ploughed  fields. 

Yet  it  was  only  a  time  to  be  counted  by  months, 
so  rapidly  does  the  education  of  life  proceed.  But 
in  those  months  I  had  received  harm  and  done  harm. 
I  had  known  what  it  was  to  be  proud  and  self-satis- 
fied ;  assured  of  my  own  importance,  and  vain  of  the 
interest  I  aroused.  Sharp  and  sudden  had  been  my 
humiliation,  painful  the  truths  I  had  learned.  One 
by  one  I  had  seen  my  foolish  conceits  rent  to  pieces, 
one  by  one  I  had  seen  my  faiths  fall. 

I  turned  with  a  sudden  fear  of  yet  further  trial 
and  clasped  the  old,  wrinkled  hand  by  my  side.  "You 


320  A   JILT'S   JOURNAL. 

must  not  go  away  from  here,"  I  said.  "And  you 
must  let  me  stay  with  you.  It  is  the  best  place  for 
me — the  very  best." 

"For  a  little  while,"  he  said,  "perhaps  it  is." 

"I  have  got  into  bad  habits,"  I  hurried  on.  "I 
may  get  into  worse ;  and  I  don't  want  to.  There  is 
something  better  than  jesting  and  laughing,  and  tak- 
ing life  only  from  a  sense  of  enjoyment ;  the  enjoy- 
ment it  offers." 

"You  are  right,  Paula,"  he  said,  "though  enjoy- 
ment is  one  of  youth's  happiest  phases;  but  it  is 
short-lived — you  must  have  something  to  fall  back 
upon." 

"That  is  what  I  want,"  I  said.  "And  only  you 
can  give  it  me." 

"My  dear  child— I?" 

"Yes — and  you  give  it  all  the  more  successfully 
because  you  are  unconscious  of  giving  it.  You  have 
a  very  exalted  way  of  looking  at  things.  I — I  have 
not.  But  I  think  if  you  let  me  stay  by  you,  and  try 
to  look  at  life  as  you  do,  it  will  be  better  for  me. 
You  told  me  I  must  see  the  world,  and  I  am  sure 
you  thought  I  should  find  it  pleasant  and  enjoy  it; 
but  when  I  look  back  on  those  frivolous  months  I 
know  they  were  only  harming  me.  What  I  learned, 
what  I  heard,  what  I  saw,  was  not  good — never!" 

"You  learned  quickly,  my  dear,"  he  said  gravely. 

"Because  I  can't  help  it.  Because  I  must  think. 
I  can  speak  to  you  and  tell  you,  because  I  feel  you 
will  understand;  you  won't  laugh.  There,  in  the 
world  I  have  left,  everyone  laughs  at  the  serious 
things.  Even  death  doesn't  seem  to  strike  them  in 
any  other  light  than  what  is  the  most  becoming 
style  of  mourning.  Perhaps  those  women,  when 
they  were  young,  felt  as  I  do,  but  pure  feelings  and 


A   JILT'S   JOURNAL.  321 

noble  ambitions  are  soon  killed  by  mockery  or  dis- 
use. And  after  a  time  one  cannot  alter  life.  It  is 
like  a  great,  strong  wave  that  is  made  up  of  the 
force  of  hundreds  of  other  waves,  and  it  carries  us 
along  to  some  shore  where  all  the  others  are  going. 
I  don't  want  to  be  carried  along.  My  life  belongs 
to  myself  as  yet.  Oh,  keep  it  by  you,  and  with 
you!" 

He  gave  my  hand  a  gentle  pressure.  His  voice 
was  not  as  firm  as  usual  as  he  answered  that  im- 
passioned outburst. 

"It  is  what  I  should  desire,"  he  said.  "But  I  fear 
to  seem  selfish.  When  you  were  away  I  missed  you 
so — the  tea,  the  little  talks,  the  quiet,  happy  hours, 
the  music.  But  I  always  said  I  must  not  expect  a 
sacrifice  from — from  you,  Paula." 

"A  sacrifice  from  me,"  I  said,  "would  be  as  im- 
possible, dear  professor,  as  selfishness  on  your  part. 
Oh,  here  we  are  at  home.  I  am  glad.  I  am  very, 
very  glad !" 

The  lights  shone  on  his  face,  and  in  the  quiet 
content  of  his  dim,  blue  eyes. 

"You  make  me  very  happy,  my  dear,"  he  said, 
"when  you  say  that." 


My  old  room — so  plain  and  simple  after  the  luxu- 
rious appointments  of  Stanhope  Gate.  The  blazing 
fire  to  greet  me,  the  laughing  face  of  Merrieless  to 
give  me  welcome.  How  pleasant  and  homely  it  all 
was! 

And  once  again  I  thought  of  that  first  home- 
coming as  an  emancipated  schoolgirl.  Of  the 
thoughts  I  had  brought  here,  and  the  discontent  of 
my  heart,  and  my  crude,  unworthy  summary  of  the 


322  A   JILT'S   JOURNAL. 

dear,  wise  old  man  whom  I  had  learned  to  love  and 
appreciate  as  well.  Yet  even  as  I  stood  before  the 
welcoming  blaze  and  gazed  into  its  deep,  red  heart, 
I  was  taking  myself  to  task  for  some  insincerity 
lurking  in  the  background  of  changed  feelings.  I 
knew  they  were  less  genuine  than  they  seemed. 
Born  of  pique,  not  penitence ;  disgust,  not  judgment. 
Born  most  of  all  of  that  self-pity  which  is  so  natural 
to  youth,  so  easily  excited  by  the  spectacle  of  its 
own  undeserved  sufferings. 

"If  I  could  only  be  sure  that  I  was  genuine  in  one 
single  thought  or  feeling,  even  in  the  way  I  regard 
my  real  self,"  I  thought  bitterly.  "But  when  I 
look  back  on  the  impulse  that  made  me  speak  as  I 
did,  I  feel  more  gratified  by  the  look  in  that  dear  old 
face  than  certain  that  I  deserve  credit  for  bringing 
it  there.  Am  I  ever  to  find  out  if  I  am  really  Paula, 
or  playing  the  part  of  the  Paula  I  want  other  people 
to  believe  in?" 

I  sighed  wearily.  It  was  getting  very  compli- 
cated and  I  was  getting  tired  of  both  Paulas — the 
false  and  the  true. 

But  I  suppose  I  took  them  both  downstairs  and 
wove  them  into  the  music  I  played,  and  the  words 
I  said,  and  the  patience  with  which  I  listened  to  ex- 
tracts from  the  book  now  nearing  completion — the 
book  whose  compiling  and  research  had  cost 
such  labor  and  time  and  thought  to  its  patient 
author. 

"It  has  tired  you,  hasn't  it?"  I  asked  him,  as  he 
put  the  sheets  of  beautiful,  neat  penmanship  aside. 

"Work  always  tires  one  more  or  less,  my  dear," 
he  said.  "But  if  it  is  work  done  to  the  best  of  our 
ability,  then  it  is  worthy  of  satisfaction." 

"Do  you  remember  my  asking  you  once  if  a  writer 


A   JILT'S  JOURNAL.  99* 

puts  real  feelings,  real  expressions  into  his  work? 
If  the  thoughts  represent  his  own  thoughts  uttered 
by  his  creations?" 

"I  remember.  And  I  believe  I  told  you  it  was 
not  necessary  to  believe  all  you  wrote,  or  individual- 
ize it.  In  the  course  of  literary  or  artistic  life  one 
gains  a  wide  experience,  which  one  naturally  turns 
to  profit  by  using  as  material.  But  in  the — the 
creation  of  a  character,  I  should  say  the  author  must 
conceive  it  clearly  as  flesh  and  blood,  and  human, 
before  clothing  it  with  words  and  placing  it  on  a 
stage  of  action.  No  story  can  seem  true  to  a  reader 
if  it  has  not  first  been  true  to  the  author  of  it.  I  am 
not  a  wide  reader  of  fiction.  Standard  works  I 
have  of  course  studied,  and  a  few  modern  novels 
that  have  been  widely  praised.  But  I  find  modern 
writers  apt  to  lose  sight  of  the — ah — importance  of 
what  they  publish.  Perhaps,  for  them,  it  has  no 
importance.  That  is  the  grave  fault  and  the  crying 
disgrace  of  modern  literature.  It  makes  it  slipshod, 
imperfect,  inaccurate.  You  may  argue  that  since 
fiction  is  only  to  amuse,  these  defects  are  unimpor- 
tant. But  nothing  is  unimportant  that  goes  out 
from  one  mind  and  soul  with  a  message  to  another. 
Harm  may  and  does  accrue.  To  me  it  seems  as 
wrong  to  give  a  false  view  of  life,  a  false  code  of 
honor,  to  gloss  over  vice,  or  mock  at  one  single, 
deep,  or  holy  emotion,  as  to  rob,  or  betray,  or  mur- 
der! There  are  no  arbitrary  rules  for  literature.  It 
is  a  pity  there  are  not.  The  ranks  might  be  cleared 
and  freed  from  that  worthless  flood  of  competition 
which  is  the  ruin  of  all  good  work." 

He  spoke  warmly  and  with  interest.  I  listened 
with  that  never-satisfied  query  in  my  mind  as  to  the 
amount  of  genuine  feeling  brought  to  bear  on  that 


324  A   JILT'S   JOURNAL. 

particular  book  whose  false  philosophies  I  had  once 
adored. 

"I  wanted  to  tell  you — something,"  I  said  at  last. 
"It  is  about  an  incident  that  happened  when  I  was 
in  town." 

"Yes  ?"  he  said,  looking  down  at  my  face,  as  I  sat 
on  my  usual  low  stool  beside  his  chair. 

"On  the  night  of  Lesley's  wedding  we  all  went  to 
the  theatre,"  I  said.  "I  had  not  asked  what  theatre, 
or  the  piece.  When  I  looked  at  the  stage  I  saw — 
her  again." 

"Poor  child,"  he  said  softly,  and  his  hand  stroked 
my  hair  as  it  lay  against  his  knee.  "I  thought  she 
had  left — gone  back  to  America." 

"No.  It  was  a  hateful  piece,  and  she  acted  as  if 
she  wanted  to  paint  the  woman  in  all  her  vileness 
and  selfishness.  And  the  people  seemed  to  like  it. 
They  called  her  back  again  and  again.  It  was  at 
the  last,  just  as  she  bowed  and  smiled,  that  she  saw 
me  and — I  cannot  get  over  the  idea  she  felt  I  knew" 

"What  makes  you  think  so  ?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know.  One  feels  a  thing  some- 
times without  being  able  to  explain  why.  That  is 
all  I  can  say." 

"Was  this — the  reason  you  hurried  back  so  quick- 
ly, Paula?" 

"Partly — and  partly  because  Lesley's  marriage 
affected  me  so.  It  was  such  a  pure  piece  of  world- 
liness  and  outward  show.  She  looked  like  a  dream 
of  purity  and  loveliness,  and  yet " 

My  voice  broke.  I  remembered  that  piteous  en- 
treaty not  to  make  her  think  on  her  wedding  eve. 
My  poor,  pretty  Lesley! 

"Do  you  fear  she  will  not  be  happy?"  he  asked 
presently. 


A   JILT'S  JOURNAL.  325 

"I  am  sure  she  will  not." 

"She  is  your  friend,"  he  said  slowly.  "You  would 
have  had  girlish  confidences.  I  suppose  you  know 
—why?" 

"Yes,"  I  said,  "I  know  why.  And  knowing  it, 
and  looking  on  at  those  people  applauding  and  en- 
couraging the  sacrifice,  looking  at  other  husbands 
and  wives,  and  the  mockery  and  woe  of  marriage, 
made  me  feel  suddenly  so  tired,  so  ashamed,  so 
sick  of  that  false  life,  that  I  only  longed  to  get  away 
to  where  peace  and  goodness  lay." 

"My  dear,"  he  said,  "I  thank  you  for  that 
thought." 

"I  have  had  other  thoughts — so  many,  and  so 
wicked.  I  get  so  perplexed." 

"Ah,  my  child — I  know  that  perpetual  question, 
that  perplexity  of  youth.  You  have  been  trying  to 
find  yourself,  Paula,  and  perhaps  you  did  not  set 
about  it  in — in  quite  the  right  way." 

"I  am  very  sure  I  did  not." 

"There  are  strange  things  in  the  heart  of  youth," 
he  went  on  dreamily.  "And  its  dreams  are  very 
beautiful.  But  life  is  no  place  for  dreams — only 
the  poet  and  the  thinker  can  afford  to  live  away 
from  the  world,  and  live  for  its  well-being.  To  the 
most  of  us  life  is  an  urgent  call  or  a  plain  duty.  It 
has  to  be  obeyed.  I  think  sometimes,  Paula,  that  it 
was  because  you  had  no  special  call,  saw  no  absolute 
duty  awaiting  you  that  you  made  life  a  complex 
instead  of  a  simple  thing.  I  have  often  thought — 
I  did  not  like  to  recall  what  was  so  painful — but 
I  have  often  thought  of  what  you  said  once  about 
writing  things  down.  That  it  made  them  seem 
more  real.  Is  this  a  habit  of  yours,  my  dear?" 

"It  used  to  be.     I  gave  it  up  after — that  hateful 


A   JILT'S   JOURNAL. 

night.  But  it  is  always  tempting-  me  again.  Every- 
thing lives  for  me,  like  a  scene,  or  a  story.  My  mind 
is  restless  until  it  places  events  into  some  shape  or 
form.  Can  you  explain  why  this  is?" 

He  was  silent  so  long  that  I  thought  he  could  not 
have  heard  me.  But  the  gentle  touch  of  the  hand 
went  on,  and  I  waited. 

"Paula,"  he  said  at  last,  "you  are  asking  the  same 
question  that — she — asked.  Can  you  not,  by  the 
light  of  your  own  nature,  read  something  of  the 
restlessness  and  fever  and  desire  that  drove  her  to 
seek  distraction  ?  She  has  found  it,  and  success  and 
fame,  too.  But  perhaps  her  heart  is  still  a  woman's 
heart,  full  of  deep,  strange  phases ;  desperately  sad, 
and  desperately  —  afraid.  You  have  come  to  me, 
Paula,  to  tell  me  what  hurts  you.  Had  she  done 
the  same " 

"Do  you  think  you  could  have  saved  her?" 

"I  should  have  tried  my  best.  She  was  young 
and  ignorant  and  thoughtless.  The  world  tempted 
her.  She  had,  perhaps,  less  resolution  than  you — or 
she  relied  upon  her  own  judgment.  But  if  you  re- 
flect, Paula,  you  can  trace  back  the  origin  of  your 
own  restlessness  and  dissatisfaction,  your  own  per- 
petual search  for  some  outlet  of  imprisoned  feelings. 
She  played  with  human  hearts  as  a  child  plays  with 
toys.  At  first  life  was  a  jest.  Do  you  think,  Paula, 
it  is  that  any  longer?  That  she  has  not  dark  and 
bitter  hours,  haunted  by  shame  and  terrible  memo- 
ries? Perhaps,  some  day,  she  will  creep  back 
broken-hearted  to  us.  Yes — us,  my  dear — the  man 
who  loved  her  faithfully — the  child  she  deserted." 

Something  in  his  voice,  in  the  innocent  simplicity 
of  that  self-betrayal,  touched  me  as  nothing  had 
touched  me  yet.  I  felt  the  tears  gather  and  drop  on 


A   JILT'S   JOUENAL.  K7 

the  wrinkled  hand  I  held,  and  I  felt,  too,  the  mo- 
mentary pause  of  the  one  that  stroked  my  hair. 

But  the  thought  in  my  heart  —  the  thought  I 
could  not  express — was  that  I  might  have  become 
like  her  but  for  that  self-betrayal — but  for  that  wise 
and  simple  life,  about  me  like  an  unasked  yet  faith- 
ful protection. 

A  protection  at  which  I  had  once  scoffed. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

I  DROPPED  back  into  the  old,  peaceful  routine  of 
days,  the  old,  simple  duties  of  life,  with  something 
of  the  satisfaction  a  tired  swimmer  feels  who  has 
reached  land  after  an  unexpected  demand  on  his 
energies. 

It  was  pleasant  to  hear  Merrieless'  homely  chat- 
ter, and  even  the  proverbs  of  Graddage  had  a  salu- 
tary sharpness  in  their  reproach,  or  reproof.  Noth- 
ing disturbed  those  first  few  days.  No  letters,  no 
calls,  no  intrusion  of  the  outer  world.  I  rested  body 
and  mind.  I  read  a  great  deal.  I  had  long,  quiet 
talks  with  the  professor — talks  that  did  me  good, 
even  if  they  could  not  cure  that  morbid  dissatisfac- 
tion with  myself  and  my  part  in  life  that  at  times 
swept  over  me  like  a  wave  of  misery. 

One  afternoon  I  went  over  to  Woodcote  to  see 
Mrs.  Herivale.  I  found  her  very  frail  and  weak, 
but  placid  and  sweet  as  ever.  She  told  me  Adam 
had  gone  away  for  a  time,  but  gave  no  reason,  or 
locality,  and  I  did  not  like  to  ask  for  either.  She 
made  me  have  tea  with  her  in  the  cosy  old  parlor, 
and  the  cheerful  talk  of  the  farmer  and  the  girls 
brought  with  it  that  sense  of  family  union  and  con- 
tent I  had  failed  to  discover  in  more  brilliant  family 
circles. 

How  they  loved  that  pale,  gentle  woman,  studied 
her  every  want,  listened  to  her  quiet  words ! 

When  they  left  us  alone,  as  they  always  did,  she 

328 


"A   JILT'S   JOUENAL.  329 

asked  me  of  Lesley  and  the  wedding,  and  I  told 
her  briefly  how  gay  and  bright  a  pageant  it  had 
seemed. 

"If  that  were  all,"  she  sighed,  "the  sweet  young 
lady  might  be  happy.  But  the  life  that  begins  for 
a  woman  when  she  steps  out  of  church  door  by  her 
husband's  side,  that,  Miss  Paula,  is  another  sort  o' 
life  to  any  that's  gone  before.  There  was  some- 
thing in  Miss  Lesley's  face  that  spoke  o'  suffering. 
And  you  say  she  had  no  mother's  counsel  to  guide 
her?" 

"No,"  I  said,  very  low,  wondering  if  there  were 
mothers  in  Society,  in  whose  counsel  a  girl  might 
trust  before  she  faced  moral  shipwreck.  "But,  after 
all,  no  counsel  can  help  you.  When  you  take  up  a 
responsibility  you  must  go  through  with  it." 

She  looked  at  me  with  her  wise,  sweet  eyes. 

"Ah,  my  dear,"  she  said,  "those  young  lips  o' 
yours  ought  to  speak  brighter  words.  There  should 
be  nought  in  life  as  yet  to  make  you  feel  discon- 
tented with  it — and  it's  an  unwise  thing  to  give  way 
to.  Sometimes  you  talk  very  clever  and  very 
pretty,  but  it  doesn't  seem  to  me  as  if  your  words 
were  real;  not  as  if  your  heart  was  in  them.  Don't 
encourage  fancies,  Miss  Paula.  Look  at  life 
straight  and  clear,  and  take  its  duties  as  they  come. 
'Tis  easier  to  face  the  great  parting  knowing  you've 
done  that.  Believe  an  old  woman,  my  dear,  who's 
seen  more  o'  life  than  you,  even  if  it's  a  different 
sort  o'  life.  There's  but  one  true  law  for  women, 
and  it's  none  o'  man's  making.  It's  just — content. 
Content  with  her  own  nature  as  Nature  made  it — 
her  own  soul  as  God  gave  it.  No  repining  because 
things  can't  be  altered  to  whims  (for  we  all  have 
our  whimsies,  Miss  Paula,  bein'  women),  no  regrets 


WO  A   JILT'S   JOURNAL. 

that  she  isn't  better  and  wiser  than  God  meant  her 
to  be.  He  gave  her  to  man,  and  man's  she  is;  to 
have  and  to  hold,  to  love  and  help  and  guide ;  or  else 
she  ceases  to  be — woman." 

Deep  into  my  rebellious  heart  sank  the  simple 
wisdom  of  those  words.  I  went  home,  as  I  always 
went  home  from  Woodcote,  the  better  for  what  I 
had  heard  and  seen. 

When  I  played  to  my  ever-willing  listener  that 
night  I  chose  brighter  music  than  for  long  I  had 
chosen — quaint  gavottes,  stirring  battle  marches, 
the  rippling,  laughing  measure  of  Chopin's  gayest 
waltzes.  It  pleased  me  to  see  how  attentively  he 
listened,  how  the  studious  face  brightened,  and  how 
now  and  then  the  white  head  nodded  time  to  some 
spirited  phrase  that  caught  his  ear  and  pleased  it. 

When  I  stopped  and  went  over  to  his  chair  he 
held  out  his  hand. 

"Thank  you,  my  dear.  I  like  that  music.  It  was 
the  music  of  youth — the  music  you  ought  to  play. 
I  fancied  I  could  see  you  dancing.  You  dance,  do 
you  not,  Paula?" 

"Oh,  yes,  of  course  I  do.  I  should  have  cut  a 
sorry  figure  in  London  ballrooms  but  for  that." 

"And  you  liked  it?  You  felt  gay  and  bright. 
It  meant  enjoyment." 

"Enjoyment  of  a  sensation  —  yes.  But,  unfor- 
tunately, professor,  one  cannot  dance  alone." 

"No,"  he  said  vaguely.  "No,  Paula,  I — I  sup- 
pose not — in  a  ballroom.  But  your  partners — were 
they  satisfactory?" 

"As  far  as  time  and  style — certainly.  But  they 
seemed  to  dance  in  much  the  same  spirit  they  did 
everything — a  bore,  an  obligation,  a  means  for  an 
end.  There  would  be  two  rounds,  sometimes  only 


A  JILT'S   JOUENAL.  331 

one,  a  few  vapid  remarks,  and  then  a  suggestion  of 
a  conservatory,  or  a  balcony." 

"None  of  those  partners  pleased  you?"  he  asked. 

"No,  except  for  the  time  they  served  as  partners." 

"You  are  a  very  difficult  girl  to  please,  or — a  very 
easy  one.  You  would  need  either  a  hero  or  a  very 
simple,  honest  man,  whose  only  merit  was  that  he 
loved  you  above  and  beyond  all  other  women — and 
would  so  love  you  to  life's  end." 

"As  for  the  hero,"  I  said,  "I  should  like  to  see  a 
hero  through  the  eyes  of  those  who  live  behind  the 
scenes  of  his  heroism.  I  might  then  get  some  idea 
of  the  man." 

-"The  man" — he  smiled  up  at  me.  "You  think 
that  behind  the  scenes  would  show  him  only  as  a 
very  ordinary  person." 

"From  the  point  of  view,"  I  said,  "of  sister  or 
mother." 

"Ah,  Paula,"  he  said  sadly,  "they  would  only  see 
him  through  a  haze  of  sentiment.  The  sister  would 
have  prophesied  strength  from  a  broken  doll  she  had 
cherished.  The  mother — what  is  the  greatest  war- 
rior in  the  world  to  the  mother  who  bore  him,  save 
the  little  lad  who  sat  at  her  knee,  and  knew  that  V 
stood  for  soldier?" 

"Well,  take  the  'simple,  honest  man,'  "  I  went  on 
inexorably.  "Should  I  appreciate  his  love? — life- 
long fidelity  is  an  irresistible  appeal  to  a  woman's 
vanity,  but  I  fear — I  very  much  fear — that  I  should 
not  value  the  love  unless  I  could  return  it  equally." 

"And  why  should  you  not  ?"  he  asked. 

"Ah,  that's  the  question.  It  doesn't  seem  in  me 
to  care  for  any  one  man.  I've  seen  plenty — I've 
read  of  them  and  heard  of  them,  and  yet  —  they 
don't  appeal  in  any  way  to  anything  within  myself." 


332  A   JILT'S   JOUKNAL. 

"Ah,  my  child,  that  is  at  once  characteristic  and 
your  defect.  You  won't  accept  anything  for  what 
it  seems.  You  want  to  find  out  what  it  is.  But 
you  never  can,  Paula.  The  hidden  springs  that 
work  our  highest  emotions,  the  noblest  impulses 
that  force  us  into  action,  these  are  not  things  to  be 
explained  to  cold  criticism.  Thought  is  God's  most 
priceless  gift,  but  who  can  tell  us  why  we  think  a 
certain  thing  —  why  our  emotions  spring  into  the 
vivid  force  of  passionate  words?  No  one.  We 
only  feel  that  it  is  so.  Once  you  feel,  Paula,  you 
will  forget  to  reason,  and  then  you  will  have  learnt 
the  woman's  lesson." 

"I  will  tell  you,"  I  said  suddenly,  "what  I  do 
feel,  and  that  is  that  I'm  never  true.  That  in  all 
phases  of  emotion  I'm  not  myself,  but  merely  look- 
ing on  at  myself;  suffering,  or  forgiving,  or  acting 
the  part  I  want  to  make  real." 

"My  dear,"  he  said,  "I'm  sorry  for  you.  In  look- 
ing out  for  Truth  you  have  missed  the  way.  You 
have  put  the  seeker  before  the  search.  Are  none  of 
your  emotions  true,  Paula  ?  Do  you  pretend — even 
to  me?" 

I  hung  my  head  abashed  and  shamed. 

"At  first,"  I  said,  "I  did  pretend.  I  wanted  to  be 
a  sort  of  ministering  angel.  It  seemed  to  me  that 
as  my  place  was  here  I  must  make  myself  of  some 
importance  in  that  place.  I  didn't  want  to  be  over- 
looked even  by  you." 

"At  first — you  said  at  first,  Paula?  Don't  fear 
to  trust  me  with  the  truth.  Have  your  feelings 
changed  ?  Can  I  not  believe  that  some  genuine  af- 
fection lives  in  your  heart  for  a  lonely,  old  man 
whose  life  you  have  gladdened?" 

"Oh,  yes — yes,  indeed !"  I  cried  eagerly.     "I  have 


A   JILT'S   JOURNAL.  333 

changed  in  that  way.  To  you  I  am  what  I  am.  I 
wanted  to  come  back  to  you,  and  I  want  to  stay 
with  you,  because  I  feel  you  are  the  one  person  who 
does  me  good,  who  draws  out  this  hateful  egotism." 

"One  thing  will  cure  you,  Paula,"  he  said  gently. 
"Not  Society,  not  the  gay  life  of  the  world  to  which 
I  sent  you.  A  sorrow — -deep  and  real.  Something 
that  will  make  you  forget  that  you  are  only  an  on- 
looker. Something  that  will  wrench  from  your 
brain  all  its  cold  and  critical  faculties;  that  will 
waken  your  heart  to  feel  the  woe  of  life,  and  make 
you  truly  grateful  if  that  life  holds  a  little  child's 
laugh  ....  a  man's  true  love." 

I  was  silent. 

I  knew  that  to-day  I  had  heard  the  deep  and 
simple  truth  of  life  from  two  sources. 

The  one  —  an  ailing  woman,  around  whom  was 
centred  the  home- worship  she  had  so  well  deserved ; 
the  other — this  lonely,  old  man,  so  wise  and  yet  so 
simple  of  heart,  who  had  silently  suffered  and  borne 
without  complaint  a  loveless  fate. 

My  headstrong  course  was  checked  suddenly.  I 
felt  as  if  I  had  strolled  carelessly  to  the  brink  of  a 
precipice,  and  a  hand  had  pulled  me  back.  Only 
those  whose  nerves  are  tried  and  strong  may  look 
over  that  brink,  otherwise  the  brain  would  reel  and 
the  head  grow  dizzy,  and  then  would  come  the  fall 
that  means  destruction. 

£  .-4>  *  4c  £-,•£-    4 

That  silence  lasted  long.  But  I  seemed  to  know 
he  was  following  my  thoughts  along  that  line  to 
which  his  words  had  given  the  cue. 

When  they  ended  in  a  deep-drawn  sigh,  he  looked 
up  to  where  I  stood  leaning  against  the  mantelpiece. 

"All  this  time,  Paula,"  he  said,  "I'have  forgotten 


334  A   JILT'S   JOURNAL. 

to  mention  an  important  communication  that  I  have 
received  from  Lady  St.  Quinton." 

He  drew  out  a  letter  from  his  pocket  and  opened 
it,  and  surveyed  the  sheet  with  critical  eyes. 

"She  tells  me,"  he  went  on,  "that  you  have  re- 
ceived an  offer  of  marriage  from  a  certain  Honor- 
able Thomas  Yelverton — a  man  well  connected, 
rich,  and  devoted  to  you.  In  fact,  so  devoted  that 
he  appeals  to  her  to  try  and  make  you  alter  your  de- 
termination. He  has,  I  gather,  already  proposed  to 
you." 

"Twice,"  I  said  briefly. 

"What  is  your  objection  to  him,  Paula?" 

I  looked  down  at  the  foot  resting  on  the  fender- 
bar,  and  ran  over  in  my  own  mind  a  list  of  objec- 
tions that  finally  resolved  themselves  into  one. 

"I  do  not  care  for  him  in  the  way  a  woman 
should  care  for  the  man  she  intends  to  marry." 

He  replaced  the  letter  in  its  envelope. 

"I  am  afraid,"  he  said,  "I  am  but  a  poor  sort  of 
guardian  for  a  girl  of  your  type,  Paula.  In  a  ques- 
tion of  marriage  a  girl's  best  and  wisest  ad- 
viser  " 

He  stopped  —  his  face  grew  ashen  gray.  I  felt 
that  quiver  of  emotion  that  passed  over  it  answered 
by  my  own. 

"Is  one  of  her  own  sex,"  he  hurried  on.  "Lady 
St.  Quinton  is  very  fond  of  you,  Paula.  She  is  de- 
sirous to  see  you  well  and  happily  married.  She 
tells  me  of  the  admiration  and — ah — attentions  you 
received,  and  she  begs  me  to  use  my  influence  with 
you  in  this  matter.  She — ah — urges  that  too  much 
stress  must  not  be  laid  upon  the  absence  of  love  in  a 
suitable  marriage.  A  great  deal  of  happiness  can 
be  gained  from  the  comforts  and  luxuries  of  life, 


A  JILT'S   JOURNAL.  335 

the  sympathy  of  a  man's  heart  as  well  as  its  de- 
votion." 

I  laughed  unrestrainedly.  To  hear  of  Tommy 
Dodd's  "sympathy"  with  any  single  wish  or  feeling 
of  Paula  as  I  knew  Paula,  was  as  amusing  as  to 
hear  the  dear  professor  laboring  through  Lady  St. 
Quinton's  well-worn  arguments  in  his  favor. 

"You  don't  appear  to  take  this  very  seriously^ 
Paula,"  he  said. 

"Indeed  no.  I  cannot.  He  is  such  a  very  odd 
young  man.  The  idea  of  marrying  him  is  impos- 
sible." 

"Have  you  weighed  all  the  advantages,  Paula?" 

"Yes,  and  all  the  disadvantages.  The  scales 
don't  balance." 

"Perhaps  you  have  never  been  in  a  position  to 
judge  his  qualifications.  Lady  St.  Quinton  sug- 
gests your  staying  a  week  or  two  at  the  Court.  He 
will  be  there  next  week.  You  will  have  a  better 
opportunity " 

I  shook  my  head.  "I  have  had  plenty  of  oppor- 
tunities. I  have  seen  as  much  of  this  gentleman  as 
I  wish  to  seb." 

Then  I  turned  suddenly  to  him.  "Are  you  so 
anxious  to  get  rid  of  me,  that  you  wish  me  to 
marry  ?" 

"My  dear,"  he  said,  "you  know  better  than  to  ask 
that.  But  I  must  do  my  duty  to  you.  I  am  an  old 
man,  Paula ;  I  may  not  live  many  years.  I  cannot 
leave  more  than  a  moderate  provision  for  you,  and 
I  have  no  relative  to  whose  care  I  could  leave  you. 
These  are  considerations  that  must  be  faced.  If  I 
could  see  you  well  and  suitably  married  it  would 
mean  a  great  anxiety  lessened." 

"But  you  do  not  refuse  me  freedom  of  choice?" 


336  A   JILT'S   JOUKNAt. 

"Certainly  not.  I  wish  you  to  judge  for  your- 
self. You  have  mixed  with  society — the  best — so 
Lady  St.  Quinton  assures  me.  You  have  known 
men's  admiration — more,  their  attachment.  I  think 
— I  suppose,  at  least,  that  your  chaperon  would  have 
explained  to  you  a  woman's  position  in  the  world 
who  is  left  unprovided  for.  It  is  a  very  hard  one 
sometimes,  Paula,  and  with  all  your  independence 
and  your  gifts  you  might  not  find  it  pleasant.  Your 
present  opportunities  are  far  greater  than  fall  to 
most  girls  of  your  age  and  social  standing.  The 
world  and  I  have  had  very  little  to  do  with  one  an- 
other. I  preferred  a  solitary  life,  but  that  cannot 
be  your  fate;  it  would  not  be  right  or  wise." 

"It  would  be  better,"  I  said,  "than  a  loveless  mar- 
riage, an  empty  heart — or  the  sins  and  shams  that 
I  have  witnessed,  thinly  veiled  by  the  hypocrisies  of 
society !" 

He  pushed  up  his  glasses,  and  looked  at  me  with 
strange,  bewildered  eyes. 

"Paula,"  he  said,  "what  am  I  to  do  with  you?" 

"Let  me  stay  here!"  I  cried  suddenly.  "Here 
with  you,  here  where  all  is  peace  and  content.  Here 
where. I  need  not  vex  myself  with  life's  problems, 
where  I  may  learn  something  that  will  help  me  and 
do  me  good." 

"Will  that  be  best,  I  wonder?"  he  said,  and  the 
puzzled  look  in  the  kind  old  face  was  very  piteous. 
"It  is  the  best  I  want  to  do  for  you,  Paula — only  the 
best.  But  the  quiet,  the  dull,  monotonous  days? 
You  forget  how  dreary  it  was  when  you  first 
came  ?" 

"I  do  forget,"  I  said,  "that  it  was  ever  dreary. 
Don't  punish  me  by  bringing  up  the  discontented, 
ungrateful  girl  who  came  to  you  a  year  ago." 


A   JILT'S   JOURNAL.  337 

"It  will  soon  be  a  year,"  he  said,  with  the  air  of 
one  making  a  discovery.  ''Shall  we  renew  the  ex- 
periment then,  Paula,  for  another  one?" 

"For  as  many  as  you  care  to  put  up  with  me,"  I 
said. 

He  rose  and  took  my  hands,  and  held  them 
closely. 

"I  think  we  are  getting  to  understand  one  another 
better.  Still,  my  dear,  if  you  would  go  to  the  Court 
for  one  week,  before  you  quite  decide." 

"If  I  come  back  an  engaged  young  woman  and 
tell  you  to  prepare  for  a  wedding  it  will  be  entirely 
your  own  fault,"  I  said,  laughing.  "You  are  driv- 
ing me  away." 


CHAPTER  V. 

"MERRIELESS/'  I  said  that  night  as  I  went  up  to 
my  room,  "open  that  box  ottoman  and  get  out  my 
evening  frocks  for  inspection.  I  am  going  to  make 
a  splash  before  I  settle  down  into  a  quiet  life." 

"Quiet  and  you,  miss,"  she  observed,  "don't  seem 
the  sort  o*  companions  as  'ud  run  together.  But 
I'm  glad  you're  to  have  the  wearin'  o'  some  o'  those 
beautiful  frocks.  I'd  like  to  ha'  seen  you  in  Lon- 
don, miss,  among  all  them  grand  folk — and  at  the 
weddin'  most  o'  all." 

She  began  taking  out  dress  after  dress.  Lady  St. 
Quinton  had  supplied  me  well,  and  some  of  them 
were  almost  as  fresh  as  at  their  first  wearing. 

"Your  fancy  leans  to  white,  miss,"  observed  my 
handmaiden.  "Not  but  what  this  blush-rose  is 
heavenly." 

"There's  a  gold  tissuey  thing  somewhere,"  I  said. 
"It  is  almost  the  color  of  my  hair.  It  was  a  most 
audacious  choice,  and  won  me  a  proposal  of  mar- 
riage. I  am  to  meet  the  same  gentleman  again, 
Merry,  so  put  that  aside  as  one  of  my  selection." 

"You  must  look  a  sort  o'  fairy  queen,  miss,"  she 
said,  shaking  out  the  lovely  fabric,  which  was  one 
of  my  successes.  "And  are  you  going  to  marry  the 
gentleman,  if  I  may  make  so  bold,  miss?" 

"I  think — not,"  I  answered. 

She  paused;  the  gown  hanging  from  her  out- 
stretched hands.  "Not  —  but  if  that  be  so,  miss, 

338 


A  JILT'S   JOURNAL.  839 

doesn't  it  seem  kind  o'  cruel  to  make  yourself  so 
beautiful  that  his  heart  will  only  ache  onsatisfied? 
That's  how  it  do  seem  to  me." 

I  sat  down  on  the  chair  before  the  fire  and 
watched  her  face  with  some  curiosity.  "That's 
how  it  would  seem  to  you?"  I  repeated. 

"Yes,  miss — and  if  you  go  a-jilting  one  man  after 
another " 

I  sprang  up  in  a  sudden  rage. 

"How  dare  you  use  that  hateful  word !  I  do  not 
jilt  men.  I  don't  even  encourage  them!" 

She  looked  so  scared  that  I  sat  down  again,  half 
inclined  to  laugh. 

"Pat  the  thing  away,"  I  said  decisively.  "I'll 
take  the  three  white  ones.  That's  all.  There's  not 
a  memory  among  them,  so  I  suppose  I'm  safe?" 

"The  satin,  miss?"  she  inquired.  "The  first  dress 
that  you  wore  when  you  went  to  the  Court?" 

"Is  that — there?"  I  asked  slowly. 

"You  left  it  behind  when  you  went  to  London, 
miss,  and  Aunt  Graddy  and  I  we  did  take  the  liberty 
of  turning  up  the  hem  so  as  to  freshen  it;  and  she 
did  up  the  lace  beautiful.  She's  grand  at  lace,  is 
aunt.  'Tis  most  as  good  as  the  night  you  put  it  on, 
miss." 

The  night  I  put  it  on ! 

1  turned  away  and  looked  into  the  fire.  How  it 
all  came  back!  My  trying  on  the  dress,  and  run- 
ning down  to  show  myself  to  the  professor  and 
Adam  Herivale 

"Yes,  I'll  take  that,"  I  said.  "Merry,  have  you 
heard  why  young  Herivale  left  the  farm?" 

"Gregory,  he  do  say  that  he  was  mortal  changed, 
miss.  That  restless  and  captious  in  his  temper — 
and  forever  studyin'  when  he  wasn't  workin'.  He 


340  A   JILT'S   JOURNAL. 

seemed  to  think  as  how  one  o'  they  grand  ladies 
stayin'  at  the  Court,  time  Miss  Lesley  was  here  and 
the  play-actin'  goin'  on,  upset  his  mind  a  bit.  She 
took  a  deal  o'  notice  o'  him,  in  a  sly  kind  o'  way. 
It's  said  by  some  as  how  she's  got  him  to  some  place 
o'  business  in  London.  Sort  o'  shamed  him  wi' 
farming." 

I  felt  myself  growing  hot  and  cold  by  turns.  She 
had  turned  her  back,  and  was  shaking  out  the  folds 
of  the  satin  dress ;  the  dress  that  he  had  seen  me  in 
that  night.  I  thought  of  his  look,  his  calm,  stead- 
fast face,  his  patience  with  my  manifold  whims,  his 
words  as  we  walked  in  the  moonlight  under  the 
shadow  of  the  castle  ruins. 

What  did  this  change  mean?  Ashamed  of  his 
farm — of  his  heritage — of  the  soil.  Deserting  the 
roof  that  had  sheltered  ancestors,  leaving  the  quiet, 
country  peace  and  the  simple,  honest  home  life  for 
the  strife  of  a  city,  the  life  of  the  traders  he  had  so 
despised. 

It  seemed  horrible  to  me.  I  could  not  fit  him  into 
such  a  place — and  yet  how  well  I  remembered  the 
powers  of  the  temptress  who  might  have  worked 
this  change.  How  like  a  flash,  that  day  on  the  ice 
came  back  to  me,  and  her  wiles  and  flatteries;  and 
yet  again,  when  he  had  been  at  the  Court  theatricals 
— and  once  more  on  that  night  when  the  grounds 
had  been  turned  into  an  open-air  auditorium,  and 
far  and  near  the  country-side  had  been  represented 
— in  each  and  all  of  these  scenes  had  I  not  witnessed 
the  attraction  he  possessed  for  this  woman  ?  Why 
did  she  dislike  me  ?  why  did  she  never  lose  an  oppor- 
tunity to  gibe  and  jest  at  "Colin"  and  myself? 

The  reason  seemed  plain  enough ! 

The  lessons  I  had  learned  bore  sudden  fruit — 


A  JILT'S   JOURNAL.  341 

fruit  of  disgust,  and  suspicion,  and  shame.  It  mat- 
tered nothing  to  me,  I  told  myself;  nothing  what- 
ever. 

I  had  professed  no  faith  in  man  or  woman.  I 
had  no  exalted  ideal  of  either.  I  could  not  reason- 
ably expect  that  Adam  Herivale  would  worship  at 
my  shrine  when  I  had  so  plainly  shown  that  his 
worship  was  undesired,  and  the  shrine  a  very  un- 
worthy one. 

But  it  hurt  me  to  think  him  less  true  of  heart 
than  he  had  vowed  to  be.  Hurt  me  to  think  of  three 
words  written  in  the  pages  of  my  discarded  journal 

— words  meaningless  now  and  falsified. 

******* 

Merrieless  had  babbled  on,  and  I  had  made  vague 
answers,  and  given  all  sorts  of  contradictory  opin- 
ions about  my  gowns  and  the  packing. 

Finally  I  dismissed  her,  and  for  long  sat  by  the 
fire  brooding,  thinking,  questioning.  I  had  heard 
how  swiftly  men  can  turn  from  love  to  fascination, 
from  rejected  affection  to  the  salve  for  wounded 
vanity  supplied  by  an  easy  conquest.  But  I  had 
not  thought  Adam  Herivale  was  this  sort  of  man. 
I  had  ranked  him  higher  than  the  others. 

It  seemed  the  irony  of  fate  that  the  one  man  I 
had  esteemed,  I  had  believed  in,  was  the  one  who 
dealt  the  first  blow  at  my  faith.  His  mother's  silence 
on  the  subject  of  his  absence  bore  a  new  meaning 
for  me  now,  as  did  the  new  sorrow  in  her  gentle 
face,  and  the  decay  of  strength  so  plainly  visible. 
Some  grief  had  come  to  her.  Who  but  Adam  could 
have  dealt  it?  Some  secret  preyed  at  her  heart. 
Who  but  Adam  had  given  her  it  to  bear? 

Yet  why  did  I  concern  myself  in  the  matter? 
Why  should  it  trouble  me?  Adam  Herivale  was 


342  A  JILT'S   JOURNAL. 

no  more  to  me  than  any  of  the  others.  No  more 
than  Captain  Convvay;  no  more  than  "Mark  Chris- 
topher Q.,"  as  I  always  called  him;  no  more  than 
Tommy  Yelverton,  who  was  asking  me  to  marry 
him  for  the  third  time. 

Yet  as  I  set  them  all  in  array,  looking  at  each  as 
a  mental  photograph,  something  strange  and  sad 
stirred  my  heart.  The  quiet,  patient  face,  the  deep 
eyes,  whose  reproach  I  had  seen  without  ever  re- 
lenting, stood  out  clearly  from  the  others,  and  vexed 
me  with  its  recognized  change. 

"At  your  service''  he  had  said,  and  I  had  smiled, 
and  told  myself  there  would  never  be  need  of  his 
service,  or  himself.  Yet  now,  if  both  were  gone,  or 
if  I  saw  them  unworthily  bestowed! Well, 

what  then,  Paula? 

****** 

This  morning  a  letter  came  to  me  from  Lesley — 
her  first  since  her  marriage.  It  was  very  brief,  so 
brief  that  I  turned  as  if  for  explanation  to  a  little 
newspaper  cutting  enclosed.  It  was  in  French.  I 
translated  it  as  I  read. 

"On  the  27th  inst.,  at  Yarosla,  Novgorod,  Russia, 
Nadia  Fedorovna,  wife  of  Paul  Fedor,  Count 
Zavadoff,  aged  twenty-seven  years." 

Written  across  in  ink  were  three  words — "/  am 
free." 

I  felt  puzzled.  Then,  bit  by  bit,  I  put  the  story 
together.  Lesley's  story — Lesley's  marriage.  The 
Russian  count  of  whom  she  had  told  me.  Free! — 
that  meant  this  Nadia  Fedorovna  was  his  wife. 

Dead,  and  Lesley  had  married!  I  snatched  up 
the  little  scrap  of  paper  and  looked  at  the  date.  Oc- 
tober 27th.  Her  wedding  had  taken  place  October 
26th.  One  day  too  late ! 


A  JILT'S   JOURNAL.  S-13 

The  horrible,  stupid  irony  of  it  thrilled  me  to  my 
heart's  core  with  a  blind  and  stupid  rage.  What 
pawns  we  were  upon  Life's  chessboard!  What 
helpless,  silly  fools,  that  Fate  played  with  as  it 
chose ! 

Nothing  had  so  stirred  and  moved  me  as  this  sim- 
ple incident  —  an  incident  that  might  wreck  two 
lives — that  a  few  hours  would  have  altered  so  com- 
pletely ! 

Those  words — "I  am  free" — the  haste  with  which 
the  paper  had  been  dispatched,  all  spoke  of  memory 
and  sincerity  on  his  part.  The  news  must  have 
reached  him  suddenly.  He  had  published  the  death, 
sent  it  and  that  message  to  Lesley,  and  it  had 
reached  her  on — her  wedding  journey. 

November  was  already  a  week  old,  and  she  and 
her  husband  were  at  Florence. 

Again  I  read  the  letter.  But  it  was  curt  almost 
to  insignificance.  Merely  saying  she  was  well,  that 
Florence  was  very  full  of  English  people,  that  they 
would  probably  go  on  to  Rome  for  the  winter  sea- 
son. She  did  not  sign  her  new  name.  And  there 
was  a  P.  S.,  like  an  after-thought: 

"You  have  often  spoken  of  the  irony  of  Fate. 
Read  this." 

I  locked  away  the  letter  and  the  slip  of  paper.  I 
longed  to  pour  my  whole  soul  out  to  her  in  response. 
But  something  stayed  me.  Something  counseled 
no  disturbance  of  that  frozen  calm  she  must  have 
gathered  about  her,  and  though  1  seemed  to  wait  on 
a  hidden  tragedy  I  feared  to  draw  aside  the  curtain 

by  so  much  as  an  inch. 

****** 

A  few  hours  later  I  was  on  my  way  to  the  Court. 
Through  the  dusk  I  saw  the  lights  in  the  old 


344  A  JILT'S   JOURNAL. 

farm-house,  and  heard  the  feet  of  laborers  going 
their  several  ways.  I  peered  forward  eagerly.  I 
wanted  some  news,  and  I  dared  not  call  at  Wood- 
cote  myself,  for  fear  of  what  I  might,  or  might  not 
hear. 

An  alert,  brisk  figure  crossing  the  main  road 
stopped  to  look  at  the  carriage  with  bucolic  curios- 
ity. The  lamps  flashed  on  young  Gregory's  face. 
I  called  the  coachman  to  stop,  and  leaned  out  of  the 
window. 

"How  is  Mrs.  Herivale?"  I  asked  quickly. 

He  came  forward,  touching  his  hat.  "But  poorly, 
miss,"  he  answered.  "They  called  doctor  in  to-day. 
You  see  'twas  a  bit  o'  a  shock  hearin'  sudden  like  o' 
Mister  Adam's  illness." 

"Mr.  Adam— is  he  ill?" 

"Way  up  in  London  town,  miss,  somewheres. 
Took  bad  wi'  one  o'  them  fevers  as  they  breeds 
there.  Gone  to  hospital,  so  'twas  said  in  the  letter. 
The  missus  she  be  terrible  upset  by  it,  and  would 
have  th'  ould  master  go  straight  off  to  see  'im ;  but 
he  doan't  like  leavin'  her,  and  doctor  he  do  say  there 
be  no  manner  o'  use  in  it  for  'tis  a  main  bad  fever  as 
have  to  rout  out  a  man's  constitution  for  six  weeks 
or  thereabouts.  A  Latin  name  don't  make  it  any 
th'  easier  to  bear,  miss,  but  it's  a  sound  like  ti-pus, 
I  heerd." 

I  had  listened  mechanically,  feeling  my  heart 
grow  heavier  with  each  word.  Could  it  be  typhus 
fever  the  man  meant?  A  terrible  and  dangerous 
one  I  knew.  And  Adam — that  picture  of  manly 
strength,  and  youth,  and  health  fulness  attacked 
by  it. 

"Tell  the  coachman  to  drive  to  the  farm,"  I  said 
hurriedly;  "I  must  see  Mrs.  Herivale." 


CHAPTER  VI. 

I  HAD  never  felt  the  sharpness  of  contrast  so 
keenly  as  when  from  the  homely  bedroom  at  Wood- 
cote,  and  the  quiet  figure  lying  so  patient,  and  yet  so 
mind-tortured  on  its  pillows,  I  stepped  into  the  bril- 
liantly lit  hall  of  the  Court. 

It  had  to  be.  I  had  to  do  it.  I  had  only  a  visi- 
tor's right  at  the  farm.  I  could  not  intrude  upon 
grief  so  sacred,  and  whose  results  already  looked 
tragical.  The  weak  mother  stricken  down  by  that 
sudden  blow;  the  blanched  cheek  and  anxious  eyes 
of  the  strong  old  farmer ;  the  sorrowful  faces  of  the 
girls — these  told  me  a  tale  of  saddest  meaning,  these 
meant  for  me  the  first  face-to-face  meeting  with 
grief  and  sickness,  and  that  chill  possibility  beyond. 

And  I  left  them  to  hear  the  Lorely's  pert  inso- 
lences, and  "Tommy  Dodd's"  vapid  greeting  of 
"Too  awfully  glad  to  see  you,  don't  you  know,"  and 
all  the  chatter  and  laughter  and  worldly  banalities 
that  in  the  last  half  hour  had  become  to  me  like 
things  of  another  world. 

I  sat  by  Lady  St.  Quinton  and  accepted  tea  me- 
chanically, and  let  my  eyes  rove  over  these  now 
familiar  faces  with  a  last  endeavor  to  find  one  real 
or  true  sentiment  expressed  in  any  of  them. 

What  mattered  that  their  talk  was  clever,  their 
wit  sharp  and  cynical  as  of  old  ?  What  pleasure  did 
I  find  to-night  in  elegant  phrases,  or  worldly  theo- 
ries, or  the  comforting  doctrines  of  self-culture? 
What  satisfaction  could  the  world  of  fashion  give  to 

345 


3*0  A  JILT'S   JOTJBtfAL. 

that  heart-broken  mother  ?  What  could  it  speak  of 
hope  or  sympathy  to  any  desolate  or  pain-racked 
soul?  What  had  it  mada  of  life  but  a  false  craze 
for  excitement,  or  an  intellectual  dissipation  that 
deceived  no  real  thinker,  but  was  an  admirable  de- 
stroyer of  sentiment? 

"What  is  the  matter  with  you,  Paula?"  asked 
Lady  St.  Quinton,  tapping  my  arm.  "I've  asked 
you  the  same  question  three  times  and  you've  only 
been  staring-  stupidly  at  the  end  of  the  room  as  if 
you  saw  a  ghost." 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  I  said  hurriedly;  "I  was 
thinking- 


"My  dear  child- 


'Oh,  I  know,  I  know,"  I  said  bitterly.  "It's  bad 
form,  bad  manners — all  that.  But  I  can't  help  it 
to-night.  I  have  seen,  heard  things  that  make  me 
think.  One  can't  always  look  at  life  as  a  jest,  Lady 
St.  Quinton." 

She  regarded  me  with  some  perturbation. 

"You  are  really  such  a  very  odd  girl,  Paula.  One 
never  knows  how  to  take  you.  I  was  about  to  tell 
you  that  I  had  a  long  letter  from  Lady  Archie  this 
morning,  and  that  she  said  our  pretty  bride  was  so 
well  and  happy,  and  making  quite  a  sensation  in 
Florence.  So  many  people  in  their  set  are  winter- 
ing there,  and  Lesley  is  so  admired.  I  was  asking 
if  you  had  heard  from  her  yet  ?" 

I  thought  of  that  brief  note,  the  little  printed  slip ; 
the  three  words  whose  message  of  hope  could  not 
heal  a  broken  heart. 

"Yes — I  heard  also  to-day,"  I  said. 

"Of  course  she  would  confide  a  great  deal  more  to 
you,  you  were  such  friends.  Did  she  say  much 
about  Florence?" 


A   JILT'S   JOUKNAt.  347 

"Very  little  about  Florence,"  I  answered. 

"No  doubt — personalities,  of  course.  But  she  is 
very  happy,  isn't  she?" 

"She  is  just  as  happy,"  I  said,  "as  such  a  mar- 
riage would  make  any  girl." 

She  gaye  me  a  quick  look  —  then  bent  a  little 
nearer.  "You  must  be  kind  to  him,  Paula.  Poor 
fellow,  he  is  quite  desperate.  His  eyes  were  never 
off  the  clock  till  you  came." 

I  looked  in  the  direction  of  my  persevering  suitor. 

"I  told  him,"  she  went  on  confidentially,  "that  if 
you  came  here  it  would  certainly  show  you  meant  to 
accept  him  this  time.  That  I  had  put  it  in  that  way 
to  you  and  he  must  judge  for  himself.  That's  why 
he  was  so  anxious." 

"Oh!"  I  said  somewhat  vaguely.  My  wits  were 
wandering  again.  How  bright  and  cold  was  that 
laugh  of  the  Lorely's ;  did  she  know 

"I  do  wish,  my  dear,  you  would  pay  some  atten- 
tion to  me,"  Lady  St.  Quinton  went  on  pettishly. 
"I  can't  imagine  what  is  the  matter  with  you. 
Ycu'renotill?" 

"No — I  am  perfectly  well.  Lady  St.  Quinton, 
have  you  ever  had  typhus  fever  ?" 

"Good  heavens,  child !  What  a  question.  No — 
of  course  not;  what  makes  you  ask?" 

"I  wanted  to  know  if  it's — dangerous?" 

"Dangerous!  Why,  it's  deadly — a  terrible  fever 
— one  of  the  very  worst." 

Further  and  further  her  voice  seemed  to  recede, 
further  and  further  into  some  hazy  distance  faded 
those  forms  and  faces  of  the  gay  group  beyond.  A 
sound  like  the  rushing  of  waters  thundered  through 

my  ears.  I  seemed  to  fall  suddenly  into  a  black  gulf. 
****** 


348  A   JILT'S   JOURNAL. 

The  voices  were  still  buzzing  when  I  opened  my 
eyes  again.  Lady  St.  Quinton  was  holding  smell- 
ing-salts to  my  nostrils,  and  fanning  me.  I  was  still 
in  my  chair ;  she,  by  standing-  up,  screened  me  from 
the  rest  of  the  room. 

"It  was  the  heat,  I  suppose,"  she  said;  "the 
change  after  the  frosty  air.  You  turned  a  little 
faint." 

Her  face  and  voice  betrayed  anxiety.  It  would 
be  unpleasant  to  have  Paula  as  an  invalid  guest,  I 
thought,  translating  that  anxiety  as  rapidly  as  I  re- 
covered my  senses. 

"It  is  very  hot,"  I  said.  "If  you  don't  mind,  I 
will  go  to  my  room  and  rest  till  dinner-time." 

"But  do  you  feel  all  right?  No  headache,  or 
chill,  or  anything  of  that  sort?" 

"Quite  right.     Only  tired.     Let  me  slip  away 

through  the  portieres.     No  one  will  notice." 
****** 

Ah,  Paula!  Paula!  is  this  you?  Sick  at  heart, 
tired,  miserable,  racked  with  anxiety.  With  fever- 
ish, throbbing  temples,  and  one  endless,  futile  long- 
ing to  hear  the  news  of  that  fight  going  on  in  a  city 
that  seems  whole  worlds  away!  A  telegram  every 
hour  would  scarcely  satisfy  you,  and  yet  you  cannot 
hear  news  once  in  the  twenty-four. 

All  to-night  I  had  felt  like  a  caged  animal  that 
longed  to  spring  on  its  captors,  but  was  withheld  by 
bolts  and  bars.  My  bolts  and  bars  were  of  conven- 
tional forging,  but  I  had  dashed  myself  against 
them  in  thought  a  hundred  times.  Now  at  last,  as 
I  locked  my  door  and  ruthlessly  tore  off  satin  and 
lace,  and  the  flowers  the  maid  had  pinned  into  my 
bodice,  I  felt  as  if  the  pent-up  feelings  of  the  day 
would  suffocate  me ! 


&   JILT'S   JOURNAL.  349 

I  threw  myself  on  the  bed  and  burst  into  a  pas- 
sion of  wild  sobs.  They  seemed  to  tear  my  very 
heart-strings,  to  agonize  my  throbbing  throat  and 
scorch  my  eyes — yet  they  brought  no  relief;  they 
eased  nothing  of  the  pain  within ;  the  strange,  hate- 
ful, cruel  pain  that  a  single  word  had  brought  to 
life;  the  pain  I  could  not  name  even  to  myself. 

All  that  evening  I  had  borne  it — all  that  night 
when  my  heart  had  been  sick  with  terror  and  anx- 
iety ;  all  the  time  while  I  had  joined  in  the  frivolous 
talk  and  danced  with  heedless  feet,  and  listened  with 
dulled  ears  to  the  personalities  and  trivalities  that 
make  up  Society  chatter. 

Now,  when  I  was  alone  at  last,  I  asked  myself 
why  I  had  ever  come.  Why  I  had  fallen  into  this 
trap  so  skilfully  laid  for  my  heedless  feet. 

Either  the  professor  had  not  understood  that  let- 
ter (as  indeed  how  could  his  simple,  unworldly  mind 
understand  it!)  or  had  not  read  it  clearly  to  me. 
Even  when  Lady  St.  Ouinton  had  made  that  remark 
about  the  construction  to  be  placed  upon  my  ac- 
ceptance of  her  invitation,  I  had  not  quite  caught 
her  meaning.  Neither  had  I  known  that  the  flow- 
ers pinned  into  my  dress  and  worn  so  heedlessly, 
had  been  a  signal  of  my  willingness  to  listen  favor- 
ably to  that  twice-rejected  suitor. 

My  dazed  faculties  had  passed  by  hints,  smiles, 
innuendoes.  Had  scarcely  even  taken  in  the  blunder- 
ing words  of  Tommy  himself — words  excused  by 
copious  libations  of  champagne,  by  the  unusual 
hilarity  of  the  evening,  by  everything,  until  by  some 
vague  chance  we  were  standing  in  a  dusky  corridor, 
and  a  laughing  voice  had  cried,  "Good-night,  turtle- 
doves," and  then  suddenly  the  light  had  been  extin- 
guished and  I  was  conscious  of  a  suffocating  em- 


350  A   JILT'S   JOURNAL. 

brace,  a  wild  attempt  to  kiss  rebellious  lips  as  I 
struggled  for  freedom. 

I  had  rushed  wildly  away.  I  was  furious,  en- 
raged, insulted,  pursued  still  by  an  echo  of  that 
laughing,  malicious  voice. 

"Won't  you  wait  for  my  felicitations,  Paula !" 

Her  felicitations — hers!  Was  it  she  who  had 
planned  the  scheme,  laid  the  trap?  Did  they  sup- 
pose I  was  going  to  accept  this  man  because  I  had 
consented  to  meet  him,  had  danced  with  him  to- 
night, and  heard  by  chance  that  those  flowers  were 
his  gift? 

My  tears  ceased  as  suddenly  as  they  had  begun. 
I  lifted  my  head  from  the  drenched  pillow  and  sat 
upright  on  the  edge  of  the  bed. 

"I  see  it  all,"  I  said.  "They  want  to  drive  me 
into  an  engagement  with  him.  They  sha'n't!  I 
never  shall — never!  never!" 

The  last  "never"  was  broken  upon  by  a  rap  at  the 
door — an  imperative  rap. 

"Who  is  it?"  I  asked  angrily,  for  I  wanted  no 
further  disturbance. 

"Let  me  in,  Paula,"  said  a  voice  I  knew  only  too 
well.  "I  have  something  to  say  to  you." 

"I  am  just  going  to  bed,"  I  said  coldly.  "I  am 
too  tired  to  sit  up  talking." 

"Nonsense.  I  won't  detain  you  five  minutes.  I 
tell  you  I  must  see  you." 

Languidly  I  rose,  unloosing  the  pins  of  my  hair 
as  I  moved  to  the  door,  and  shaking  it  down  to 
screen  my  flushed,  disordered  face.  I  threw  it  open. 

There,  in  floating  turquoise  blue  that  matched  her 
eyes,  her  fair  hair  loosely  coiled,  stood  the  Lorely. 
I  closed  the  door  behind  her. 

"I  cannot  imagine  what  you  have  to  say  to  me," 


&  JILT'S  JOURNAL.  351 

I  muttered  furiously,  being  now  in  a  rage  with  my- 
self and  life,  and  the  world  in  general. 

She  threw  herself  into  a  chair.  I  remained 
standing. 

"Can't  you?"  she  said.  "What  if  I  am  bent  on 
giving  you  a  little  bit  of  advice,  and  also  telling  you 
of  a  little  discovery  I  have  made?" 

I  looked  at  her  and  said  nothing. 

"The  advice,"  she  went  on — "is  to  marry  Tommy 
as  soon  as  you  can  manage  it — before  he  learns  a 
certain  little  secret  that  might  alter  his  intentions.'* 

I  felt  my  cheeks  flame  suddenly,  but  still  I  kept 
silence. 

"The  secret,"  she  said,  "is  one  I  learnt  by  merest 
chance,  but  I  am  rather  good  at  putting  two  and  two 
together.  That  has  made  me  successful  in  life. 
You  cannot  have  too  many  people  afraid  of  you,  or 
of  what  you  know  about  them.  Shall  I  tell  you 
what  I  know  about  you,  Paula?" 

Still  I  was  far  from  fathoming  her  real  meaning. 
I  thought  she  alluded  to — to ,  something  my  own 
heart  was  holding  as  a  secret — almost  from  myself. 

"Why  don't  you  speak?"  she  went  on.  "One 
would  think  you  were  deaf  and  dumb.  Shall  I  tell 
you  what  it  is?" 

"Yes,"  I  blurted  out  half  unwillingly,  goaded  to 
semi-desperation  by  her  mocking  glance,  her  per- 
sistence. 

"Throw  your  memory  back  a  little,"  she  said,  "to 
a  moonlit  night,  to  a  certain  entertainment,  to  a 
woman  on  a  balcony  gazing  out  at  a  crowd  of  up- 
lifted faces.  Look  at  that  woman,  Paula — here!" 

She  sprang  up,  and  with  one  rapid  movement 
turned  my  face  to  the  glass  over  the  fireplace.  My 
face  with  all  that  glittering  hair  flung  loosely  back. 


352  A   JILT'S   JOURNAL. 

My  face,  that  was  that  other  face  in  its  white  de- 
spair, and  the  sorrow  struggling  for  expression  in 
dark,  tear-stained  eyes. 

"Now,"  she  went  on  rapidly,  "now  you  know 
what  I  mean.  I  suspected  then.  In  London  I  felt 
sure — so  sure  that  I  made  myself  acquainted  with 
certain  details  of  her  life.  They  are  at  your  service 
— if  you  wish." 

I  turned  on  her  then — savage  as  any  robbed  and 
outraged  creature  can  be  savage. 

"I  know  what  you  mean,"  I  said,  "I  know  what 
you  have  discovered.  I  never  had  a  very  high  opin- 
ion of  you,  Lady  Brancepeth,  and  to-night  will 
scarcely  improve  it.  But  as  my  affairs  can  scarcely 
concern  you,  I  would  rather  not  discuss  them." 

She  reseated  herself  and  smiled. 

"You  were  always  good  at  words,  Paula,  and  of 
course  now  I  know  how  you  come  by  all  those 
tragedy-queen  airs.  But  please  don't  run  away 
with  the  idea  that  my  interest  in  you  is  quite  disin- 
terested. I  assure  you  it  is  not.  I  want  you  to 
marry  Tommy  Yelverton,  and  Lady  St.  Quinton 
also  wants  to  bring  it  about.  She  wrote  to  your 
guardian  explaining  that  if  you  were  disposed  to  re- 
consider your  rejection  she  would  expect  you  here 
to-night.  Tommy  knew  this.  He  looked  upon 
your  arrival  as  a  sign  that  you  would  accept  him. 
We  all  saw  him  gather  those  flowers  and  send  them 
to  your  room.  We  all  saw  you  wear  them.  After 
the  little  episode  in  the  corridor  he  went  down  to 
the  smoking-room  and  told  the  men  it  was  all  right. 
To-morrow  you  will  be  looked  upon  as  engaged, 
unless  you  choose  to  place  both  yourself  and  him  in 
a  very  ridiculous  position.  That  is  how  the  matter 
stands,  and  I  must  say  that  for  a  girl  who  has  no 


A   JILT'S   JOURNAL.  353 

money — no  position — and  a  doubtful  histoirette  in 
the  background,  you  have  one  of  the  best  chances 
ever  offered.  Such  luck  doesn't  come  twice  in  a 
girl's  way,  I  assure  you." 

"Luck "  I  echoed  scornfully.  "You  call  it 

luck !  The  sort  of  luck  that  came  your  way  when 
you  married  Lord  Bobby!" 

She  flushed  to  the  roots  of  her  fair  hair,  and  her 
eyes  took  the  cold,  hard  glitter  that  meant  danger. 
I  had  seen  that  look  before.  I  had  seen  it  when 
Adam  Herivale  had  avoided  her. 

I  gave  her  no  time  to  speak.  I  was  too  desper- 
ately angry. 

"What  you  choose  to  plan  or  think,  or  what  any- 
one here  chooses  to  imagine  about  a  situation  forced 
upon  me,  and  of  whose  nature  I  was  entirely  igno- 
rant, does  not  trouble  me  in  the  very  least.  I  am 
no  weak  fool  to  be  driven  by  false  circumstances 
into  false  action !  You  and  your  set,  Lady  Brance- 
peth,  have  taught  me  a  great  deal — more  perhaps 
than  you  imagine.  And  first  and  foremost  of  all  is 
the  disgrace  of  the  marriages  you  make ! 

She  started  to  her  feet. 

"Disgrace — how  dare  you  talk  of  disgrace!  You, 
whose  mother " 

"You  shall  say  nothing  against  my  mother,"  I 
interrupted  fiercely.  "Whatever  she  has  done,  her 
faults  lie  before  the  world ;  they  are  not  hid  in  holes 
and  corners.  Not  the  outcome  of  a  sensual,  evil 
nature.  I  know  what  drove  her  to  the  stage — it 
scarcely  deserves  to  be  called  a  fault  beside  the  hid- 
den vileness  of  women  such  as  you!" 

"How  —  how  dare  you!"  she  cried,  white  now 
with  fury,  and  perhaps  with  fear  of  my  own  fear- 
lessness. 


354  A   JILT'S   JOURNAL. 

I  laughed.  "Dare!  There's  nothing  I  would 
not  dare  when  I'm  goaded  by  such  mean  and  das- 
tardly tricks  as  have  been  played  on  me  to-night. 
Nothing!  What  have  I  to  fear?  What  have  I 
ever  done  that  I  am  ashamed  of?  Can  you  say 
that?  Can  you  tell  me  why  you  recognized  the 
screen  that  came  from  Captain  Conway's  rooms? 
Why  you  wish  me  to  marry  one  of  your  discarded 
lovers?  Why  you  took  an  honest,  clean-minded 
man  from  his  land  and  his  toil,  and  his  simple, 
honest  life,  and  tempted  him  to  the  world  that  has 
ruined  you? Why " 

I  stopped  abruptly,  for  the  door  had  opened,  and 
in  the  entrance  stood  the  amazed  figure  of  Lady  St. 
Quinton. 

"Whatever  is  the  matter,  Paula?  I  heard  your 
voice  raised  so  loudly  I  came  in.  What  does  it 
mean?" 

"It  means,  my  dear,  that  Paula  has  been  indulg- 
ing in  a  fit  of  heroics,"  said  the  Lorely,  coolly. 
"Giving  vent  to  words  and  feelings  wholly  un- 
worthy of  your  teaching.  She,  in  fact,  got  into  a 
perfectly  natural  schoolgirl  rage  because  I  suggested 
that  her  encouragement  of  poor  Tommy  has  led  him 
to  believe  she  means  to  marry  him." 

"So  you  will,  Paula,"  said  Lady  St.  Quinton 
sharply. 

She  closed  the  door  and  came  forward. 

"I  will  not,"  I  said  determinedly.  "You  are  all 
trying  to  drive  me  into  an  engagement  by  force  of 
strategy.  Had  you  let  me  alone  I — I  might  have 
done  this  thing.  But  the  tricks  practised  upon  me 
are  too  disgusting.  You  have  overreached  your 
object.  I  shall  never  marry  Mr.  Yelverton  now!" 

"I  told  you  it  was  a  case  of  heroics/'  said  the 


A  JILTS   JOTJENAL. 

Lorely,  disdainfully.  "Why  should  we  trouble  our 
heads  about  her?  All  she  pines  for  is  a  two-roomed 
cottage,  and  a  farm  lout  who  will  share  his  porridge 
and  potatoes  with  her!" 

Lady  St.  Quinton  glanced  from  one  face  to  the 
other.  I  had  not  thought  hers  could  look  so  angry. 

"Really,  Paula,"  she  said,  "I  cannot  understand 
you.  You  seem  to  think  you  can  play  fast  and  loose 
with  life  and  men  and  social  obligations.  It  is  most 
embarrassing.  I  undertook  a  certain  responsibility 
in  connection  with  you,  and  I  have  faithfully  ful- 
filled my  part  of  the  duty.  You — seem  determined 
to  be  ungrateful." 

"I  am  not  ungrateful,"  I  interposed.  "I  only  say 
I  will  not  be  forced  into  a  marriage  for  which  I  have 
no  inclination." 

"May  I  ask,  then,  why  you  came  here — after  re- 
ceiving my  letter?"  she  asked  coldly. 

"I  received  no  letter.  My  uncle  read  out  what 
you  wrote  to  him.  There  was  no  mention  of  any 
conditions  attending  this  visit." 

"They  were  distinctly  stated,"  she  said.  "And  I 
repeated  them  to  you  on  your  arrival." 

"I  was  not  listening — I  did  not  understand." 

"For  one  who  is  so  quick  at  drawing  inferences, 
you  can  be  singularly  obtuse  when  it  suits  you, 
Paula." 

Hot  tears  of  pride  and  anger  rushed  to  my  eyes, 
but  in  that  one  hated  presence  I  would  not  show  any 
signs  of  weakness. 

"Please  remember,"  went  on  Lady  St.  Quinton, 
"that  you  are  placing  me  in  a  very  awkward  posi- 
tion, and  gaining  for  yourself  a  most  unenviable 
reputation.  Everyone  looks  upon  you  to-night  as 
engaged  to  Mr.  Yelverton.  It  was  the  subject  of 


356  A   JILT'S   JOUKNAL. 

congratulation  in  the  smoking-room.  How  are  you 
going  to  explain  to  him  to-morrow  that  you  had  no 
such  intention?  Are  you  aware  what  you  will  be 
called?" 

I  was  aware,  only  too  well  aware.  What  evil 
fate  pursued  Paula,  and  labeled  every  love  affair 
with  ever  the  same  obnoxious  epithet  ? 

"I  cannot  help  it,"  I  repeated.  "It  was  not  my 
fault.  I  do  not  wish  to  marry  Mr.  Yelverton,  or — 
or  anyone." 

"She  has  an  arriere  pensee  for  Colin  and  the  por- 
ridge, and  the  two-roomed  cottage,"  sneered  Lady 
Brancepeth,  taking  her  lovely,  insolent  face  and 
trailing  skirts  toward  the  door. 

She  paused  there  a  moment.  "I  hardly  think  she 
will  get  them,  though.  Colin  is  a  little  bit  tired  of 
his  share  in  the  idyl." 


CHAPTER  VII. 

I  COULD  not  sleep. 

I  was  in  a  fever  of  mingled  rage,  grief,  anxiety, 
indignation.  Little  by  little  the  truth  dawned  upon 
me.  Little  by  little  the  whispers  I  had  heard  of  the 
Lorely's  arts  and  fascinations  and  infidelities  pieced 
themselves  into  one  whole,  like  the  bits  of  a  puzzle 
map.  She  had  always  gained  the  admiration  she 
desired.  Always — save  in  one  instance. 

As  I  thought  of  her  bold  looks,  her  audacious 
pursuit;  as  I  remembered  her  cool,  cutting  remarks 
on  every  possible  occasion,  I  felt  they  had  had  but 
one  origin — jealousy.  She  had  been  jealous  of  me, 
and  of  Adam  Herivale's  simple  devotion  to-  me. 
And  by  some  means  she  had  got  him  away  from  his 
home,  and  knew  that  he  lay  ill  and  dying  in  a  public 
hospital,  and  yet  came  here  to  plot  further. 

What  a  search-light  her  own  imprudent  words 
had  thrown  around  her  own  actions !  How  swiftly 
the  scales  had  fallen  from  her  eyes !  How  clearly  I 
saw  now — now,  when  it  was  too  late!  Now  when 
the  sorrowful  gaze  of  a  dying  woman  haunted  me. 
Now  when  afar  and  beyond  call,  lay  the  one  faithful, 
honest  heart  I  had  turned  from  me  with  careless 
words. 

I  felt  aged  by  ten  years  that  night;  bitterly 
humiliated  by  that  scene,  shamed  in  my  own  sight 
forever  as  I  thought  of  my  secret  at  that  cruel 
worldling's  mercy.  Not  my  secret  only,  but  the 
secret  of  Nina  Desallion. 

357 


358  A   JILT'S   JOURNAL. 

The  thought  of  her  roused  me  to  fresh  anger. 

I  had  tried  to  vindicate  her  to  my  enemy,  because 
I  was  too  proud  to  show  what  that  story  meant  to 
me.  But  my  own  heart  was  bitter  and  wrathful  as 
ever.  She  had  dealt  me  my  first  stroke  of  suffer- 
ing. She  had  torn  youth's  illusions  from  my  heart, 
and  dethroned  an  ideal  that  nothing  in  the  world 
could  ever  replace.  She  had  added  an  added  bitter- 
ness to  that  scene  to-night.  She  had  barbed  the 
taunts  of  those  cruel  lips  with  a  deadlier  malice. 

The  whole  weight  of  those  memories  over- 
whelmed me  like  a  torrent.  I  lay  back  in  my  chair, 
bruised,  quivering,  agonized  as  by  physical  blows; 
while  my  too  vivid  imagination  played  its  tragedy, 
and  I  saw  myself  the  sport  of  my  own  challenged 
Fate. 

I  think  I  knew  Paula  at  last. 
****** 

For  long  confusion  reigned,  and  any  clear 
thought  or  decision  was  impossible.  Yet  I  knew 
they  must  be  faced.  I  had  to  meet  those  people 
again  on  the  morrow  or  leave  without  any  explana- 
tion. And  how  could  I  do  that  ? 

They  had  told  me  that  my  engagement  was 
looked  upon  as  a  settled  thing,  proclaimed  by  the 
man  himself.  At  least  I  owed  him  some  explana- 
tion. Could  I  show  him  the  trap  and  leave  it  to  his 
honor  to  free  me? 

Honor!  Had  he  any?  Did  any  of  these  men 
and  women  know  the  true  meaning  of  that  word? 
One  thing  alone  they  feared — to  be  made  ridiculous 
— and  assuredly  Tommy  Yelverton  would  be  made 
ridiculous  if  I  had  seemed  to  accept  him  one  day  and 
reject  him  the  next. 

I  looked  at  my  position  from  the  point  of  view  of 


A   JILT'S   JOUKNAL.  3*9 

the  two  women  who  had  brought  it  about,  followed 
their  arguments,  and  heard  my  passionate  refuta- 
tion of  them.  But  still  the  question  remained — 
what  to  do  ? 

How  the  riddle  perplexed  me — what  to  do  ? 
****** 

"Once  you  feel,  Paula,"  the  professor  had  said. 

Well,  God  knows  I  had  felt  enough  to-night,  and 
suffered  enough.  I  felt  as  if  all  the  hopes  of  youth 
had  been  stifled  in  me.  The  laughing,  careless  ac- 
ceptance of  mere  joys  was  forever  at  an  end. 

Time  had  been  an  impatient  schoolmaster.  In 
this  one  year  I  had  learnt  enough  of  the  world's 
wisdom  and  the  world's  tragedies  to  live  for  a 
memory's  lifetime. 

The  fire  was  dying  down.  The  house  was  silent 
as  the  grave.  I  crouched  over  the  dull  embers,  cold 
and  shivering,  and  heard  the  clocks  striking  in  the 
distance,  and  still  I  had  arrived  at  no  decision. 

Five ! The  day  was  here  already.  Only  four 

more  hours  and  I  must  face  that  hateful  ordeal. 

A  cowardly  thought  of  running  away,  of  going 
back  to  the  professor  and  telling  him  what  had  hap- 
pened, came  to  me.  But  I  rejected  it.  The  dear, 
simple,  old  man !  How  should  he  understand  any- 
thing but  the  plain  "Yea"  or  "Nay"  of  the  matter? 
How  could  I  expect  him  to  disentangle  the  thousand 
threads  of  its  complications? 

I  pictured  my  entrance  into  the  breakfast-room. 
Looks,  smiles,  congratulations.  What  a  fool  I 
would  look  if  I  said,  "Excuse  me,  ladies  and  gentle- 
men, there  is  some  mistake ;  I — I  didn't  mean  to  ac- 
cept Mr.  Yelverton's  proposal !" 

And  what  a  fool  he  would  look — poor  Tommy, 
whose  only  fault  was  that  he  was  what  he  looked! 


360  A   JILT'S   JOURNAL. 

But  a  man  can  never  forgive  being  publicly  pre- 
sented in  his  own  rightful  character. 

I  threw  myself  down  on  the  bed  and  drew  the 
satin  eiderdown  about  me,  for  I  was  chilled  to  the 
bone  now  the  fever  of  rage  had  spent  itself.  I  closed 
my  burning  eyes  and  longed  for  sleep,  but  no  sleep 
came. 

When  the  maid  appeared  with  my  tea  and  hot 
water  I  was  still  awake,  still  irresolute ;  not  knowing 
whether  to  brace  myself  to  face  the  situation  or  fly 
from  it.  Beside  my  cup  of  tea  lay  my  letters.  I 
looked  at  them  with  no  sense  of  interest.  The  en- 
velope I  opened  first  was  directed  in  the  professor's 
neat,  small  hand. 

An  enclosure  fell  out  of  it — addressed  to  me  in  a 
bold,  clear  handwriting  quite  unknown.  I  opened 
it,  surprised  to  find  several  sheets  of  closely  covered 
paper  inside.  But  surprise  was  swept  aside  by  a 
stranger  and  more  terrifying  emotion  as  I  read  on. 

"Paula,"  it  began,  "I  suppose  you  have  learned  by 
now  the  secret  that  will  doubtless  poison  your  mind 
against  me.  I  have  often  wondered  whether  you 
would  ever  know.  When  I  left  this  country  I  left 
with  a  determination  never  to  return  to  it.  Yet  I 
returned.  When  I  left  you — a  small,  wilful,  pas- 
sionate copy  of  my  own  self  —  I  resolved  that  I 
would  make  no  attempt  to  see  you,  to  claim  you! 
Yet — I  have  seen  you,  and  I  am  going  to  claim — 
something — of  you.  I  fancy  I  see  you  start.  I 
fancy  I  see  your  face  as  it  looked  to  me  that  night 
across  the  theatre.  I  wonder  if  you  guessed  what 
it  expressed — disgust,  anger,  shame!  I  am  going 
to  ask  you  to  look  a  little  into  your  own  heart  be- 
fore you  register  these  feelings  as  irrevocable.  I 


A  JILTS   JOURNAL.  361 

am  going  to  claim  what  is  in  you  of  myself,  and 
show  you  how  the  tyranny  of  Fate  may  fetter  a  life. 

"I  was  a  restless,  discontented  girl,  beautiful 
enough  to  win  any  man's  admiration  that  I  desired, 
or  did  not  desire.  I  threw  myself  into  all  sorts  of 
pursuits  that  might  cure  my  restlesness,  or  subdue 
my  energy,  or  satisfy  my  heart.  Paula — I  found 
nothing.  Have  you  found  anything?  For  it  was 
my  second  self  I  met  when  I  met  you  a  few  weeks 
ago.  And  all  the  time  I  avoided  you  I  was  study- 
ing that  self,  and  pitying  it.  The  book  they  spoke 
of  was  my  book.  You  were  in  the  library  when  it 
was  shown  to  me,  and  I  watched  your  face  and  saw 
how  well  you  knew  it.  Paula — that  book  was  writ- 
ten as  an  outlet  of  that  nature  and  that  temperament 
which  drove  me  to  destruction.  Child,  do  you  know 
why  I  left  you  ?  I  felt  that  to  keep  you  by  me  was 
to  make  you  such  a  woman  as  Fate  had  made  me. 
I  knew  that  nothing  simple,  peaceful,  good  would 
ever  content  me.  I  tired  of  love.  I  never  loved 
any  man.  I  played  at  it  as  I  play  now  on  the 
mimic  stage  that  gives  me  scope  for  some  expression 
of  what  I  am,  or  feel.  But,  Paula,  to  you  let  me 
confess  that  I  am  a  most  unhappy  woman.  So  un- 
happy that  some  day,  when  the  string  of  excitement 
snaps,  I  shall  not  care  to  live. 

"I  tell  you  this  to  warn  you.  If  there  is  anything 
deep,  or  faithful,  or  real  in  your  heart,  thank  God 
for  it.  If  you  can  love,  thank  God  for  that;  and  if 
you  find  love,  take  it,  Paula,  and  reverence  the 
giver,  for  there  is  no  better  thing  in  life — or  worse. 

"But  you  may  escape  its  'worse.'  You  have  the 
dearest,  kindest,  most  faithful  soul  that  ever  Heaven 
created,  beside  you.  Be  good  to  him,  Paula.  I 
spoilt  his  life  as  I  spoilt  so  many.  There  lies  the 


903  A   JILT'S   JOURNAL, 

irrevocable  past  behind  me.     Is  there  hope,  is  there 
consolation,  is  there — forget  fulness? 

"Child,  I  said  I  would  claim  you;  but  only  your 
attention  now — only  your  pity  as  you  read.  Only 
your  forgiveness  at  some  future  time  when  you  have 
learnt  to  be  charitable  to  faults.  For  it  is  very 
easy,  Paula,  to  condemn  a  saint  that  we  don't  love, 
and  equally  easy  to  forgive  a  sinner  that  we  do. 

"When  the  heart  is  empty  its  doors  stand  wide 
to  admit  any  passer-by  that  chooses  to  enter.  But 
when  it  is  full,  full  of  love  and  tenderness,  and  all 
the  sweet  and  holy  things  that  women  like  myself 
never  value,  then,  child,  the  idle  steps  go  by,  leaving 
not  even  an  echo  behind ! 

"It  would  be  false  sentiment  on  my  part  to  pre- 
tend that  maternal  love  sprang  to  life  at  sight  and 
knowledge  of  you.  And,  with  all  my  faults,  I  never 
pretended  any  sentiment  I  did  not  feel.  But — I 
know  I  could  love  you,  Paula,  did  I  stay  beside  you 
long;  and  I  know — I  fear — my  love  would  only 
harm  you. 

"So  I  write  this,  feeling  I  owe  you  some  explana- 
tion, and  I  beg  you  to  believe  that  when  you  hear 
my  name  lightly  spoken  of,  I  am  not  as  bad  as  I 
have  seemed  to  be.  But  I  always  loved  excitement. 
I  have  gone  to  the  very  brink  of  danger  to  learn  its 
nature,  and  to  try  my  own  powers  of  resistance. 
Such  experiments  are  dangerous,  Paula.  Be  warned 
by  me,  and  do  not  attempt  them. 

"I  do  not  suppose  we  shall  meet  again.  I  return 
to  America  the  day  that  you  will  receive  this  letter. 

"You  may  think  a  warning  from  me  superfluous, 
but  if  you  can.  break  away  from  those  people  among 
whom  I  found  you.  They  will  only  do  you  harm. 

"And  one  thing  more  let  me  tell  you  for  your 


A.  JILT'S   JOURNAL.  363 

comfort.  If  you  have  never  known  a  mother's  love, 
at  least  you  have  not  missed  a  father's.  The  wise 
and  tender  guardianship  to  which  I  left  you  is  the 
only  wise  thing  I  have  ever  done  in  all  my  rash,  and 
ill-judged,  and  most  reckless  life.  Perhaps  for  his 
sake  you  will  forgive  me,  as  he  has  forgiven.  I 
think  he  would  never  counsel  resentment — or  re- 
venge. N.  D." 

There  was  no  signature.     Only  those  initials. 

I  sat  with  the  letter  in  my  hand,  and  all  my 
thronging  thoughts  of  her,  and  her  fate,  and  mine, 
brought  with  them  a  weight  as  of  years.  Nothing 
could  have  surprised  or  startled  me  more  than  such 
a  letter.  But  also,  nothing  could  have  so  braced  my 
energies  for  the  trial  before  me.  I  locked  it  away 
till  such  time  as  I  could  read  it  beside  that  simple, 
kindly  counsellor  to  whom  I  owed  so  much — locked 
it  away,  and  then  commenced  to  dress. 

The  ravages  made  in  my  appearance  by  those  past 
hours  were  not  as  visible  as  I  supposed.  Cold  water 
and  eau-de-cologne  reduced  my  eyes  to  their  nor- 
mal condition,  and  even  my  face  to  its  normal  color. 

Paula — dressed  and  in  her  right  mind,  presented 
only  a  trim,  "tailor-made  girl,"  with  loose,  glitter- 
ing coils  of  burnished  hair,  and  a  half-proud,  half- 
defiant  look  in  her  eyes. 

This  was  the  Paula  that  entered  the  breakfast- 
room. 

The  house  party  usually  dropped  in  in  scattered 
fashion  of  one  or  two.  Lady  St.  Quinton  and  her 
husband  were  there,  and  a  couple  of  women,  and 
Tommy — a  dissipated-looking,  blear-eyed  Tommy, 
whose  face  and  hands  told  tales  of  midnight  pota- 
tions. 


364  A   JILT'S   JOURNAL. 

At  sight  of  him  all  fear  left  me. 

I  greeted  them  in  my  usual  fashion,  meeting 
Lady  St.  Quintan's  questioning  glance  with  perfect 
non-committal.  I  saw  she  was  puzzled.  Tommy 
was  too  owlish  to  be  effusive.  He  gave  me  a  chair 
next  his  own,  and  I  wished  him  a  cool  good  morn- 
ing. 

No  remarks  were  made,  and  I  began  my  break- 
fast with  an  appearance  of  innocence  I  was  far  from 
feeling. 

"What  a  cool  little  devil  you  are,"  murmured  my 
supposed  fiance.  "Why,  I'm  in  a  perfect  blue  funk 
this  morning.  Nervous  as  a  cat,  don't-cher-know. 
Gad!  however  I'm  to  stand  getting  married  if  the 
preliminary's  bad  as  this,  beats  me.  How  the  deuce 
do  women  carry  off  things  as  they  do  ?" 

"By  consciousness  of  superiority,"  I  said.  "We 
don't  think  it  necessary  to  drink  ourselves  into  im- 
becility in  order  to  prove  we're  happy,  or  have  met 
with  some  unmerited  good  fortune." 

"Unmerited,"  he  chuckled.  "Gad!  you're  right 
there,  though  that's  the  sort  o'  thing  /  ought  to  have 
said.  But  I'm  no  hand  at  pretty  speeches;  damn 
bad  lot,  Paula,  but  you'll  have  to  put  up  with  me, 
don't-cher-know." 

I  looked  at  him  in  wide-eyed  astonishment.  A 
battle  of  voices  around  drowned  our  conversation. 

"Put  up  with  you!  What  do  you  mean,  Mr. 
Yelverton  ?" 

"Oh,  come  now — Mister?    Say  Tommy." 

"There's  no  more  reason  why  I  should  say 
'Tommy'  than  there  appears  to  be  for  what  you  call 
'putting  up  with  you.' ' 

"Oh,  come,  I  say — after  last  night?" 

"What  about  last  night?     You  were  very  rude, 


rA'  JILT'S   JOURNAL.  365 

and  I  felt  extremely  annoyed,  but  I  excused  it  and 
your  general  behavior  on  the  usual  grounds." 

"Usual— grounds!" 

He  stared  at  me  and  then  at  his  cup,  and  then  at 
the  untouched  ham  on  his  plate.  His  hand  went  up 
to  his  thin,  fair  hair  and  touched  it  as  if  seeking  as- 
surance that  it  was  his  own  head  it  covered. 

''Was  I — so — so  very  bad?"  he  muttered. 

"About  as  bad  as  you  generally  are  on  special 
occasions,"  I  answered.  "But  as  it  was  only  a 
joke " 

"A  joke?"     He  half  turned  and  faced  me. 

"A  joke "  I  went  on  inexorably,  "for  which  I 

expect  you  to  apologize  most  humbly.  You  had  no 
right  to  make  use  of  my  name  as  you  did.  It  was 
a  quite  unwarrantable  piece  of  impertinence." 

His  jaw  dropped.  He  looked  a  comical  fool,  as 
well  as  Tommy  Yelverton. 

"By  Jove!"  he  whispered  under  his  breath,  "I 
must  have  been  beastly  drunk.  Then  nothing  really 
— happened?" 

(If  only  Paula's  eyes  looked  as  innocent  as  she 
meant  them  to  look !) 

"Of  course  not.  I  got  a  hint  of  what  you  said 
through  Lady  St.  Quinton.  I  determined  to  speak 
to  you.  I  felt  sure  you  would  be  sorry  for  the — 
mistake,  in  the  morning." 

"Damn'd  sorry  if  it's  annoyed  you.  But,  Paula," 
he  lowered  his  voice — "why  must  it  be  a  mistake? 
Couldn't  you " 

"No — I  couldn't.  If  you  will  come  out  in  the 
garden  for  a  few  moments  after  breakfast,  I'll  tell 
you  zvhy." 

"I'd  do  anything  in  the  world  for  you,  and  you 
know  it." 


366  A  JILT'S   JOURNAL. 

"Then  drink  your  tea  and  try  not  to  look  foolish, 
and  if  anyone  says  anything  about  last  night,  you 
must  declare  it  was  all  a  mistake.  You've  a  very 
good  excuse  to  give.  Look  at  your  hand." 

It  was  shaking  so  that  he  could  not  raise  his  cup 
to  his  lips. 

"I'm  beastly  'shamed,"  he  muttered.  "But  it 
serves  me  right.  Lorely  bet  me  I  couldn't  drink 
three  brandies  and  then  say  "Paula  Yelverton'  after 
'em.  And  I  b'lieve  I  did,  though  the  /'s  did  bother 
confoundedly." 

The  color  raced  madly  to  my  cheeks.  Lorely 
again!  Well,  this  time  she  had  not  got  the  better 
of  me! 

At  that  moment  she  entered,  though  she  rarely 
appeared  at  breakfast.  Tommy  rose  and  pushed 
back  his  chair.  I  followed  his  example. 

Under  the  fire  of  those  insolent  eyes,  before  the 
gaze  of  the  men  who  had  heard  our  names  coupled 
in  the  smoking-room,  I  walked  out  beside  the  man 
they  had  chosen  to  believe  was  my  accepted  hus- 
band. 

An  hour  later  he  had  explained  to  Lord  St.  Quin- 
ton  the  mistake  he  had  made. 

That  afternoon  we  both  left  the  Court. 
****** 

"Then  you  couldn't  make  up  your  mind?"  asked 
the  professor,  after  I  had  burst  into  his  study,  ruf- 
fled his  hair,  disarranged  his  papers,  dragged  him 
away  to  have  tea  with  me ;  done  everything,  in  fact, 
that  a  wild,  free,  excited  Paula  could  do,  who  had 
"overthrown  the  tables  of  the  money-changers"  for 
once. 

"But  I  could"  I  said,  "and  I  did.  And  now 
I've  come  back  to  you,  to  live  with  you  and  take 


A  JILT'S   JOTJKNAL.  367 

care  of  you,  and  be  'happy  ever  after/  But  first, 
will  you  let  me  see  Lady  St.  Quinton's  letter?" 

He  produced  it  from  the  torn  coat  pocket,  and  I 
read  its  diplomatic  sentences  as  I  leaned  against  his 
knee,  safe,  sheltered,  beloved.  (Oh,  happy  Paula, 
who  had  once  released  a  poor  trapped  rabbit  in  the 
woods!) 

By  the  light  of  what  I  had  learned  I  could  read 
its  meaning — a  meaning  that  had  quite  escaped  his 
unworldly  mind,  and  my  inattentive  ears. 

It  is  not  right,  perhaps,  to  rejoice  over  a  victory 
won  by  strategy,  but  when  I  thought  of  those 
astute,  worldly  women  bringing  their  whole  artil- 
lery to  bear  on  a  weak,  inebriated  fool  and  an  igno- 
rant girl,  I  felt  I  had  something  to  thank  my  wits 
for — something  that  had  borne  me  through  the  or- 
deal of  Tommy's  blundering  apologies,  and  left  him 
and  his  instigators  the  fools;  not  Paula  —  not 

myself ! 

****** 

At  last  I  summoned  courage  to  show  him  that 
other  letter,  so  strangely  interwoven  with  events 
that  were  happening,  so  momentous  in  its  tragic  les- 
son and  its  fateful  warning. 

I  felt  it  was  right  he  should  know,  and  that  if  its 
message  were  any  compensation  for  past  wrong,  for 
past  pain — to-night  was  a  fitting  time  to  deliver  it. 
But  I  had  not  thought  to  see  him  break  down  so 
utterly  before  its  cynical  sadness.  I  had  not  thought 
to  see  his  tears  blister  the  pages  that  he  handed  back 

to  my  keeping. 

****** 

Dear,  dear  old  man,  how  I  loved  him  that  night ! 
How  I  blessed  him  for  the  lessons  he  had  taught  out 
of  that  wise  brain,  and  gentle,  humane  heart  of  his ! 


368  A   JILT'S   JOURNAL. 

For  long  I  had  not  prayed.  For  long  rebellion 
and  pride  and  resentment  had  ruled  my  every  feel- 
ing. That  night,  under  the  shadow  of  the  old, 
gray,  clustering  roofs,  under  the  brooding  wings  of 
the  old,  ivied  ruins,  my  stubborn  heart  bowed  itself, 
and  I  cried,  "Thank  God  for  love!" 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

CHRISTMAS  EVE  again. 

Two  years  have  gone  since  I  first  landed  at 
Scarffe  Station,  unmet,  unloved,  and  apparently  un- 
wanted ;  with  no  special  place  in  life,  and  little  in  my 
heart  but  an  overweening  curiosity  concerning  it. 

Two  years. 

There  is  snow  on  the  ground  to-night,  and  a  cold, 
white  moon  shines  in  the  sky,  and  the  castle  lifts  its 
ivied  towers  and  broken  archways  to  the  glittering 
stars. 

An  hour  ago  I  had  been  looking  over  the  blurred 
pages,  the  hasty  scrawls,  the  foolish  conceits  of  a 
girl  called  Paula. 

There  they  were.  Traced  with  almost  cruel  truth 
by  the  thinker  who  had  thought  them,  the  actor 
who  had  acted  them.  Faults  of  friend  and  foe. 
Youth's  hasty  judgment  —  youth's  selfish  indiffer- 
ence— youth's  fateful  mistakes,  there  they  were ! 

I  read  them  through  tears  of  sorrow  and  of 
shame.  I  read  them  as  a  story  truer  than  any 
printed  page  had  ever  held.  Will  any  read  them  in 

like  manner? 

****** 

For  a  year  they  had  ceased.  Ceased  abruptly,  for 
the  writer  had  had  no  heart  to  yield  to  self-confes- 
sion. 

Perhaps  she  had  begun  to  fear  it. 

But  the  year  is  over  now,  and  it  needs  but  little  to 

869 


370  A   JILT'S   JOURNAL. 

complete  this  story  of  a  girl  who  "scribbled  with  her 
mind." 

Claire,  who  said  that,  has  married  the  Vicomte 
de  Chaumont.  She  tells  me  she  is  happy  as  the  day 
is  long. 

Well,  her  nature  knew  its  need  and  satisfied  it. 
Let  her  pass  from  the  procession.  Who  comes 
next?  Lesley.  Alas,  my  pretty,  best-loved  Les- 
ley !  What  of  your  life-story  goes  to  fill  these  few 
blank  pages? 

In  Rome  Lesley  lies,  a  victim  to  malarial  fever, 
so  they  say.  There  is  more  than  one  name  for  a 
broken  heart.  I  saw  her  grave  in  the  English 
churchyard  a  brief  while  ago,  for  the  professor  and 
I  have  had  a  year  of  foreign  travel,  and  Claire's 
Paris  and  Lesley's  Riviera  have  also  come  to  Paula 
through  her  own  eyes. 

But  she  had  no  heart  to  write  of  them.  No  heart 
to  write  anything.  No  want  of  aught  in  life  but 
just  that  kindly  presence,  that  simple  guidance, 
whose  true  value  suffering  had  taught  her. 

A  year!  It  seems  double  the  length  of  the  first 
year.  But  it  has  been  less  eventful.  Its  close  finds 
me  back  in  the  old  gray  house,  the  only  place  that  has 
ever  seemed  to  mean  home.  Merrieless  is  married, 
but  Graddage  still  rules  us  with  severe  gaze  and 
sternest  of  texts.  Yet  even  Graddage's  face  looked 
friendly  after  so  many  foreign  chambermaids. 

I  had  been  to  see  Merrieless  before  opening  the 
locked  drawer  that  held  that  old  journal.  It  is  since 
reading  over  these  bits  about  her  that  I  realize  how 
much  good  her  simple  common  sense  has  done  me. 

Very  odd  things  are  factors  in  the  moulding  of 

character,  and  sometimes  very  small  ones. 

****** 


A  JILT'S   JOURNAL.  371 

But  when  I  saw  that  dangling  pencil  hanging  by 
a  cord  to  the  thick-lined  volume,  and  when  some 
impulse  moved  me  to  write  an  ending  to  those  un- 
finished records,  I  did  not  ask  myself  what  the  end- 
ing might  be  for  that  curious  scribbler  to  whom 
they  owe  their  existence. 

I  took  the  thought  of  them  and  the  story  of  them 
to  the  one  place  about  which  their  interest  clings, 
and  here  I  found — another  chapter. 

Perhaps  a  happier  and  a  better  than  any  yet 
written. 

And  so,  for  sake  of  what  already  stands  con- 
fessed, for  sake  of  one  true,  noble  soul,  that  to  my 
mind  seems  to  dwarf  the  petty,  self -consequent  one 
that  has  already  spoken,  I  am  going  to  write  the 

story  I  heard  in  the  old  gray  ruins  to-night. 
****** 

How  dark  they  were  and  quiet  as  the  sun's  rays 
faded  behind  the  hills,  its  last  bars  of  gold  just  out- 
lining their  highest  point !  And  as  the  dusk  swept 
softly  downward,  the  twinkling  lights  of  farm  and 
cottage  shone  from  near  and  far. 

I  watched  the  evening  star  arise  below  the  faint 
white  of  the  moon.  The  cold  air,  with  the  brine  of 
the  sea  in  its  breath,  blew  keen  and  chill  from  the 
coast,  and  brought  with  it  a  hundred  memories  of 
other  days  spent  here,  and  all  the  changes  that  had 
come  and  gone. 

I  leaned  against  the  sheltering  tower,  and  sud- 
denly through  the  dusky  gateway  I  saw  a  figure  ad- 
vance. Dark  as  it  was,  the  step  and  form  seemed 
familiar.  With  a  gladness  wholly  irrepressible  I 
stepped  forward  and  in  a  moment  we  were  face  to 
face.  The  moon  was  half  veiled  by  clouds,  and  left 
us  in  shadow. 


373  A   JILT'S   JOURNAL. 

"Aaam !"  I  cried,  and  then  my  cheeks  burned  and 
rny  outstretched  hands  fell. 

We  were  no  longer  in  shadow,  the  moon  threw  its 
radiance  over  his  uplifted  face,  white  and  stern,  and 
unlike  the  face  I  had  not  seen  for  so  long. 

"Miss  Trent,"  he  said  coldly.  "I — I  thought  you 
were  away — abroad  ?" 

"We  only  came  back  yesterday,"  I  said. 

My  gladness  and  surprise  were  abruptly  checked. 
He  had  not  even  shaken  hands  with  me. 

"How  is  your  mother?"  I  asked,  feeling  more 
embarrassed  than  I  had  ever  felt  in  all  my  life. 

"She  is  a  little  better  we  all  think." 

"I  am  glad  of  that.  I  am  coming  to  see  her  to- 
morrow." 

"She  will  be  very  pleased,  I  am  sure.  She  missed 
you  very  much  this  last  year." 

How  stiff  and  formal  and  stupid  it  all  was!  I 
grew  impatient. 

"Are  you  quite  well  and  strong  again  yourself? 
She  was  terribly  anxious  about  you  when  you  had 
that  fever." 

"I  know.  I  heard  much  of  your  kindness,  Miss 
Trent.  The  hours  you  spent  with  her,  the  help  you 
were,  the  way  you  cheered  and  comforted  her.  She 
often  says  she  couldn't  have  borne  up  but  for  you." 

"I  did  very  little,"  I  said.  "Very  little.  Adam 
— do  you  mind  telling  me  something?" 

His  eyes  met  mine.  The  cold,  white  light  above 
our  heads  made  him  look  strangely  pale. 

"Perhaps  I  ought  not  to  ask;  please  don't  think 
it's  from  idle  curiosity.  But  I  should  like  to  know 
why  you  went  to  London  ?" 

His  eyes  flashed,  widened,  then  dropped. 

"I  went,"  he  said  sternly,  "because  I  was  driven; 


A   JILT'S   JOURNAL.  373 

driven  by  restlessness  and  misery,  and  the  sort  of 
longing  that  comes  to  a  man  and  sets  his  blood  to 
roving.  I  went  because  I  had  grown  tired  of  this 
place,  the  dullness,  the  monotony.  Of  the  self-same 
hills  on  which  the  sun  rose  and  set,  and  the  wagons 
that  crossed  and  recrossed  them,  and  the  grain  that 
was  sown  for  the  sickle,  and  the  hay-cutting  and 
harvesting  that  any  clod  might  tend  as  well  as  I. 
Life  widened  suddenly  for  me  and  I  lost  content. 
That,  Miss  Paula,  was  why  I  went  to  London." 

My  heart  leaped.  "But  you  have  come  back — to 
the  farm?"  I  said  hesitatingly. 

"Not  to  stay.  Only  to  spend  Christmas.  To 
cheer  my  mother's  heart  a  bit.  In  a  week  I  shall 
have  gone  again." 

"A  week,"  I  echoed  disappointedly.     "So  soon?" 

"  'Tis  long  enough,"  he  said,  "  to  be  reminded 
of  old  sorrows  —  and  the  pain  that  drove  me 
hence." 

I  was  silent  for  a  moment. 

"Adam,"  I  said  at  last,  "do  you  know  it  was  two 
years  ago  this  very  night  that  you  and  I  first  met  ?" 

"I  think,"  he  answered  slowly,  "I  do  not  need  re- 
minding of  that.  I  wonder  you  should  remem- 
ber it." 

His  face  showed  no  signs  of  softening.  I  won- 
dered vaguely  if  it  were  sorrow  or  anger  he  so 
sternly  repressed. 

"Why  did  you  come  here?  to-night?"  I  went  on. 

"Why  did  you — Miss  Paula  ?"  he  asked. 

"I  have  been  away  a  whole  year,"  I  said.  "And 
in  that  year  I  have  learned  much,  seen  much,  suf- 
fered much.  But  nothing  can  kill  out  the  memory 
of  this  place.  Often,  in  others  as  ancient,  as  his- 
torical, I  have  come  back  here,  seen  that  leaning 


374  A   JILT'S   JOURNAL. 

tower,  and  the  ancient  gateway,  and  the  moon  clear 
above  the  old,  gray  pile " 

"A  summer  moon  ?"  he  asked  slowly. 

I  was  silent. 

He  went  on.  "There's  been  many  and  many  a 
day  and  night  in  my  life  this  last  year  when  I've 
stood  here,  too — in  memory — and  thought  of  words 
said — and  the  deep,  sad  loneliness  they  left  behind ; 
and  of  something  that  changed  the  light  of  hill  and 
home  for  one  man,  and  drove  him  to  the  world  to 
find — forget  fulness." 

"Did  he  find  it,  Adam?" 

"No,"  he  said,  "I'm  afraid  he's  not  one  of  the 
forgetting  sort.  It  seems  strange  that  a  slip  of  a 
girl  should  come  between  a  man  and  all  that's  made 
his  life  before  he  saw  her.  Stranger  still  that  he 
should  be  driven  back  to  his  sorrow  only  by  sight  of 
some  place  that's  known  the  tread  of  her  feet,  the 
touch  of  her  hand.  But  I  suppose  it's  Nature." 

He  sighed  heavily. 

"Shall  we  be  walking  back?"  he  said. 

I  moved  on  beside  him  mechanically.  My  heart 
was  full  of  vague  pain.  The  chill  of  the  wind  was 
less  chilling  than  the  tone  of  his  voice,  or  the  words 
that  put  the  present  away — for  sake  of  the  past. 

"You,  Miss  Paula,"  he  said  presently,  "will  not 
be  stopping  long  here,  I  suppose  ?" 

"I  hope  I  shall,"  I  answered.  "I  have  no  desire 
to  leave  it.  I  have  seen  two  worlds,  Adam — the 
world  of  the  country,  and  the  world  of  the  town.  I 
know  which  is  best,  I  think." 

"This,"  he  said,  "is  the  best — till  thought  gets  too 
strong  to  be  killed;  then  turmoil  is  better  than 
quiet." 

"What  thought  did  you  flee  from?"   I  asked 


A   JILT'S   JOURNAL.  375 

softly.  "From  the  thought  of  that  white  witch  who 
tempted  you  to  town  ?" 

He  started. 

"No  one  tempted  me !" 

"Adam,"  I  said  reproachfully,  "think  again. 
Were  there  no  promises  of  a  great  future  ?  No 
offer  of  place  and  position  that  should  make  a  noble 
yeoman  into  an  ignoble  nobody?" 

"How  have  you  heard  such  things?"  he  de- 
manded. 

"A  little  gossip,  a  little  scandal,  a  little  piecing  of 
a  puzzle.  I  told  you  I  had  learned  a  great  deal  in 
this  past  year,  Adam." 

"I'm  sorry  if  you've  believed  anything  that  would 
make  me  seem  unworthy  of  your  notice." 

"Notice,"  I  said  petulantly.  "Oh,  Adam,  what  a 
hateful  word!  What  has  come  to  you?" 

"I  was  told,"  he  said  slowly,  "that  you  laughed 
at  and  despised  me — called  me  a  clod — a  country 
bumpkin." 

"It  is  not  true!"  I  cried  passionately.  "I  never 
did !" 

"I  am  glad  to  hear  that,"  he  said.  "It  poisoned  a 
good  deal  of  life  for  me,  Miss — Paula.  I  set  to 
work  at  a  new  sort  o'  business,  but  buying  and  sell- 
ing don't  come  natural  to  one  who  has  lived  face  to 
face  with  Nature,  and  laughed  under  the  free  heav- 
ens, and  watched  the  seasons  come  and  go  by  signs 
that  town-folk  never  notice.  I  grew  weak  and  ill, 
and  then  fever  laid  hold  on  me,  and  not  a  soul  to 
speak  to,  or  comfort  me.  Only  for  thought  o'  my 
mother  and  how  she  was  bound  up  in  me,  and  the 
words  they  sent  from  home,  I  shouldn't  have  cared 
how  it  ended.  But  I'm  alive  and  hearty  again." 

"And  we  have  met — again,"  I  said.     "And  a 


376  A   JILT'S   JOURNAL. 

great  deal  has  happened,  Adam,  to  change  us 
both." 

"A  great  deal,"  he  echoed.  "Yet  not  so  much 
that  it  hasn't  left  me  still  where  I  was  when  I  heard 
those  laughing  words  o'  yours,  echoing  mine. 
Shall  I  remind  you  o'  them  again,  Miss  Paula  ?" 

"Perhaps  I  don't  need  reminding,  Adam.  Per- 
haps my  memory,  too,  is  faithful.  I  think  the 
words  were  but  three,  were  they  not  ?  And — " 
I  paused  and  turned,  and  pointed  up  to  where  the 
old,  grim  pile  stood,  half  shadow  and  half  starlight 
— "and  you  spoke  them  there,  Adam.  You  said 
you  were " 

"At  your  service,  Miss  Paula." 

"But  many  months  have  come  and  gone  since  you 
said  it." 

"They  have  left  me  —  at  your  service  still,"  he 
said. 

"Then  do  not  call  me  Miss — Paula  ever  again." 


[THE  END.] 


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